Fawlty Towers: The Robbers
by JulietBurke007
Summary: Inspired by the rumored 13th episode of the classic sitcom. Misanthropic Basil Fawlty must protect his not-so-beloved hotel from vicious robbers. He is aided by the ever-competent Polly, but his nagging wife, a confused Barcelonan waiter, and those pesky guests threaten to compromise his sanity in the midst of Fawlty Towers's greatest crisis (so far)!
1. The Roof

Polly Sherman glances about the empty lobby, pencil grasped loosely in her hand. Her bright blue eyes are wearily scouring the place for some inspiration. Finding none, she returns her gaze to some bland sketches of the room's stuffy furniture. An unexpected, cheerful burst of whistling catches her attention.

Basil Fawlty saunters into the lobby, grinning alarmingly. Confused, the waitress stares at her employer. _Something is very wrong here. Very wrong indeed._ Basil seems so… so _happy_. It's a rather disconcerting sight for Polly. She has simply become so accustomed to the hotelier's constant state of manic depression; his current, jovial appearance is extremely perplexing.

"Hello, _Polly_!" Basil sings, waving at the girl. "How are you on this _beautiful_ afternoon?"

"Mr. Fawlty, it's miserable outside." Polly gently gestures at the windowpane, which reveals a gray and dripping world. "On the news they're saying that we're in for the storm of the century!"

"Ah yes, but it's a wonderful day nonetheless." Eyes twinkling, Basil strolls over and leans on the desk. "Do you know why?"

"Not really, Mr. Fawlty," Polly admits, bewildered by his jolly demeanor.

"Look around you!" Basil waves about the vacated lobby. "What do you see? Notice anything unusual about this place?"

"There's a mangy moose head on the wall?" she guesses, observing the tacky decoration.

"No." The buyer of the stuffed _Alces alces_ cranium frowns, slightly offended. "No, don't you see? The hotel is positively empty! Terry's in the kitchen, making me a sandwich. Sybil's out visiting her witch of mother. Manuel's away… well, doing God knows what." The waitress bites her lip, bearing the secret knowledge that the Spaniard is currently off feeding his pet rat, which he has, despite Basil's threats, kept hidden in his room. "And best of all? None of those damn guests flitting about!"

"Sir, the Major, Miss Tibbs, and Miss G—"

"Permanent residents don't count," Basil counters, swiftly. "I'm talking about those nagging, nitpicking, Nazi-tourists that scurry in and out of the bloody place, alwayslooking for something to criticize."

"But aren't you _worried_ about the lack of guests?" Polly asks, anxiously. "I know Mrs. Fawlty is."

"Silly Sybil. You'd think that after nineteen years in the hospitality industry she'd either stop caring so much or just lose her mind and get it done with."

"But, Mr. Fawlty, we're empty at the peak of tourist season. It is rather concerning…"

"I know that, dear. But think of it this way: without that dreadful riff raff mucking about, complicating matters, for once things are running right!"

"Running right into the ground," the waitress mutters, darkly.

"Sandwich's ready, Mr. Fawlty!" Terry calls from the kitchen. Basil skips off to receive his food, ignoring Polly's backtalk.

"BASIL." A fuming Sybil bursts through the front door. Her expression is extremely cross, her appearance disheveled. Leaves and twigs adorn her swirling tower of hair and she is brandishing a thin sapling like a stave. The overall effect is quite frightening. "BASIL?"

"Yes, dear?" Basil emerges from the kitchen, munching on a delicious sandwich. Bemused, he notices the small tree his wife is carrying. "Ah, the arboriculture convention ended early, then?"

"This _landed_ on me as I walked in," his wife hisses, teeth gritted.

"Of course it did, dear!" Basil assures her, cheekily. "The weatherman _did_ say cloudy with a chance of falling plants!" His teasing only increases her rage.

"Basil, this… this _tree_ was growing in the gutter."

"I don't see how that's _my_ fault," Basil snaps, exasperated now, "I didn't plant it there, if that's what you're implying. It's not my intention to cultivate a rooftop orchard."

"I asked you to clean the gutters last week! Basil, there's a major storm coming. If the spouts are clogged with leaves and bloody _trees_," Sybil vigorously waves about the sapling to emphasize her point, "the water will spill down and the wine cellar will flood again!" She snaps the slender trunk in half, angrily chucking the fractured wood out the front door. "Now, please excavate those down spouts before it starts to rain! I'll send Manuel to help you—"

"Don't bother, I'll just do it myself." Sulking, Basil slams down his lunch on the desk and stomps off to locate the necessary roof-cleaning equipment. Sybil grabs his sandwich, swiftly devouring it.

"Thank you, Basil."

"Anything for you, my livid lumberjack," he mutters, happy mood utterly destroyed.

* * *

Thoroughly soaked and immensely agitated, Basil scoops damp, dirty leaves out of the gutters and into a bucket with a small gardening trowel. It is softly drizzling, causing the roof of Fawlty Towers to become quite slick and dangerous. The hotelier is precariously perched at the edge of the roof, gripping at the shingles in order to steady himself.

"_Please excavate those down spouts_," he mimics his wife, seething. "Christ, what a nag. _Basil, answer the phone. Basil, pick up some milk. Basil, don't hit those guests._ Every bloody five seconds…" The tall, thin man flicks on his transistor radio. An upbeat tune blasts through the cold rain.

"_If you ever get annoyed, look at me I'm self-employed! I love to work at nothing all day! And I'll be taking care of business (every day), taking care of business (every way), I've been taking care of business (it's all mine), taking care of business and working overtime_."

"What a load of bollocks!" Basil bristles at Bachman-Tuner Overdrive's suggestion that self-employment is an incredibly easy way of life. He fiddles with the radio again, flipping the channel to a respectable news station.

"—issued flood warnings in anticipation of this upcoming storm. Officials have stated that flights across the south are to be delayed until the dangerous weather passes. It is recommended that civilians avoid driving in the storm unless it is absolutely necessary. Also, individuals residing on the floodplain should take measures to prevent water damage in their homes."

"Already on it, mate," Basil snaps, continuing to shovel.

"In other news, Torquay police have issued a statement warning residents to look out for a pair of robbers that have been terrorizing the region. So far, the duo have raided several convenience stores and a cheese shop…"

"Oh dear God, not the bloody cheese shop," Basil mutters, sarcastically, "What's society coming to? Surely a Venezuelan Beaver Cheese shortage will spark off mass suicide..."

"The robbers have also targeted several banks and local hotels." Basil's eyes bulge. The gardening trowel slips from his grip, clattering off the roof as he listens intently to the rest of the broadcast. "The pair's modus operandi changes depending on the situation, although police believe that all of the crimes have been committed by the same people. Witnesses have revealed that the couple posed as tourists in order to gain access to the hotels that they would later burglarize. In other cases, the police commissioner has stated that the duo, '…took part in some more standard-type robbery situations, basically holding up banks and stealing cars at gunpoint.' So far, no one has been seriously injured during the robberies, but officials say that the criminals are indeed '…armed and dangerous.'"

"Oh God." Basil grows considerably paler, contemplating the possibility that the robbers may select Fawlty Towers as their next target. "Oh dear God."

"Meester Fawlty?" The hotelier groans as Manuel hurries across the lawn, cheerfully waving up at him. "Meester Fawlty?"

"What is it, Manuel?"

"I come to help!'"

"What? No—"

"Mrs. Fawlty, she send me! I help you!"

"I don't need any bloody help!"

"¿Qué?"

"Just get out of here!" Basil angrily pantomimes the action. "I told Sybil not to send you out to annoy me!"

"No, Meester Fawlty, I no here to destroy you!" Manuel denies, vehemently, "I help you!"

"Ugg. Fine." Basil rubs his throbbing temples. "Just throw me up that garden trowel, would you?"

"¿Qué?" Manuel blankly stares up at his boss, confused about the requested item.

"The garden trowel!" Basil tries again, gesturing at the fallen horticultural tool.

"Como?"

"The bloody trowel! The garden trowel!" Basil fumes, pointing wildly. "It's on the ground right there! The trowel, throw me up the trowel! I need it to clean the gutters!"

"Ah! Sí!" Nodding, the little Spaniard sprints towards the front of the building.

"Where the hell is he going?" Basil growls, exasperated. "Manuel, you idiot! It's right there! No! The trowel's right there! Where I'm _pointing_!" The waiter returns after a few minutes, struggling under the weight of the obnoxious garden gnome he is carrying.

"What are you doing?" Basil hollers, staring at the gaudy yard decoration.

"Iz garden troll, sí?" the waiter calls up, hopefully. "I bring garden troll."

"TROWEL, you idiot, TROWEL, NOT TROLL! BESIDES, that's a bloody GNOME!"

"I throw you troll?"

"No! Don't—"

Manuel throws the garden gnome, succeeding only at nearly knocking Basil off the roof. The hotelier barely catches the bulky object, before furiously tossing it back at his oblivious employee. Concerned, the waiter catches the falling lawn ornament and gently places it on the ground.

"Meester Fawlty, you no catch?"

"NO! Of course I—ugg." Basil gives up attempting to reason with Manuel. "Catch this, you Iberian imbecile." Fawlty hurls the bucket of decaying leaves at the waiter. It's a perfect shot, the pail falls over directly the man's head, obscuring his eyes and becoming quite stuck.

"Ahh!" Manuel stumbles about, blinded. "No puedo ver!" Pleased, Basil watches from the roof as his employee trips about. Engrossed by the pain of another, he hardly notices the large cluster of people shuffling towards his hotel.

"Hey!" There are several startled exclamations as Manuel stumbles into the crowd, nearly knocking several individuals over.

"I say!"

"Watch it!"

"Ah!"

"Look out!" The confused group stares as Manuel slips and begins to painfully tumble down the front steps.

"It's okay!" Basil shouts, triumphantly. "He's from Barcelona!"

"Who are you?" a heavyset woman inquires, cautiously.

"The name's Fawlty. Basil Fawlty. I own the place. Who are you people? Are you all one party?"

"No." The speaker is a young, pretty American woman. "We've all come from the Exeter International Airport. The storm's picked up over there, it's caused mass cancellations, they're saying that the planes are going to be grounded till the rain and wind subside in a few days."

"Most've the nearby hotels are filled up," a bespectacled man adds, "Do you have any vacancies? We're all quite stuck here."

"Hmmm." Basil strokes his chin, as if deep in thought. "We _might_ be able to squeeze _some_ of you in. You can talk to my wife, Sybil, she should be at the front desk." Anticipating a lack of available rooms, most of the group scrambles into the hotel, striving to obtain shelter. Along with a few other concerned individuals, the pretty girl and her tanned male companion remain outdoors, staring up at Basil.

"Hey, man!" the American guy calls to him. "You shouldn't be up there! That storm's moving in fast!"

"You call _this_ a storm?" Basil asks, mockingly. He notices the man's Florida Gators t-shirt. "Ah yes, you're from Florida."

"Yeah…."

"Not used to a bit of rain?" Basil muses. The Floridian shakes his head.

"Actually, Florida gets plenty of storms, terrible hurricanes—"

"_Please_, you namby-pamby Americans simply can't handle our typical British weather," Basil snaps, dismissively. 'Personally, I find it _bracing_." The hotelier stands up dangerously, smiling approvingly at the dismal weather. "This is a true man's climate—"

Thunder scrapes loudly in the heavens above. Four consecutive flashes of lightning momentarily illuminate the soggy yard. Squeaking, Basil wobbles and pitches straight off the roof.


	2. The Couple

"Damn Americans," Basil mutters, glaring at the raindrops slipping down the windshield, "That bastard from Florida made me fall off the bloody roof."

"Basil, it wasn't that man's fault. He was just trying to warn you about the storm." Sybil's gaze never wavers from the long and winding road ahead. The Fawltys are currently driving home from the hospital. The medical staff evaluated Basil and, despite his constant barrage of complaints, found him to have sustained no serious injuries from the embarrassing topple. "Dr. Price said that you were absolutely fine. So you can stop being so melodramatic.

"_Melodramatic_? I'm melodramatic for stating the truth? Those idiots distracted me! I could've—"

"—killed one of our prospective guests," Sybil finishes, icily. "Basil, please behave yourself when we get back. We haven't had a real guest in a long time."

"But dear, the Major and Mrs. Tibbs—"

"_Permanent residents don't count_." Sybil sighs, heavily. "We have to impress these people. While you were rolling around outside, crying—"

"My dear, I had just fallen two stories!" Basil snaps, mortified, "I was tearing up slightly…"

"You were _howling_, dear, I wouldn't be shocked if the neighbors heard it. But while you were throwing a fit, I talked to a few of the new guests. They all seem very nice; they're just staying until this nasty spell of weather passes over. They come from all over. This could be a good opportunity to wow some international travelers."

"They looked like common trash to me," Basil spits, scowling. "The usual tourists, vacationers, and dregs of humanity."

"Basil! When we get back, you _will_ behave. We need the income. We need this business."

"We're doing fine, woman. What are you worried about?"

"We're doing _fine_? Fawlty Towers is on the verge of bankruptcy!"

"We always make it through." Basil is speaking not out of optimism but bitter apathy.

"Not this time," Sybil protests, "This medical bill will only worsen the situation."

"Medical bill? Oh, so now this is _my_ fault. It's my fault that I fell off the roof. I could've been seriously injured, Sybil! So now money's more important than my health? I swear, Sybil, you've no concern for my safety."

"That's not true, Basil," Sybil says, tiredly.

"Yes it is! Where were you while I was being X-rayed, hmm? Nowhere in sight, and in my time of need."

"Basil, I disappeared for two seconds because I had to talk to Dr. Price about something." The rain picks up as the Fawltys speed towards their hotel. "Which reminds me, I have to tell you—"

"Slower, Fatty," Basil squints.

"WHAT?" Sybil swerves to the side of the road, slamming the brakes. "WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL ME?" The furious woman reaches over, slapping her husband across the face.

"_Ouch_! I was just reading the damn sign!" Basil points out the window. "Calm down, you stupid woman!" Sybil cranes her neck to see past her husband's tall form. Sure enough the sign reads 'Slowwer Fatty' instead of 'Fawlty Towers.'

"That bloody paperboy's been rearranging it. _Again_." Basil glowers at the vandalized sign. "You'd think that chase I gave last time would've dissuaded him. I almost got him. Would've if it weren't for that bloody truck full of chickens. Little blighter nearly got run over, though." Basil smiles fondly at the memory.

"Oh dear, Bas, I'm sorry for slapping you," Sybil apologizes, guiltily, "I guess I'm just a bit sensitive—"

"Hold that thought. I'd better go fix it before someone important drives by," Basil interrupts, hopping out of the car. Sybil silently watches her husband meticulously reposition the letters.

"Alright, what were you saying?" Basil gets back in the passenger seat; Sybil pulls into the driveway.

"Well, I was talking to Dr. Price…" Expression pensive, Basil begins fiddling with the radio instead of listening to his wife. Sybil glowers as a loud and dramatic opera blasts throughout the car. "Would you please turn that commotion off?"

"That commotion _happens_ to be the _Ride of the Valkyries_," he snaps, offended. "And I _happen_ to enjoy Wagner."

"As did Hitler," Sybil retorts, dryly. Sulking, Basil determinedly turns the channels till he discovers the local news station. "Basil, please, this is important—"

"SHHHH!" Basil turns up the volume on the radio. "So is this!"

"Now, more about the "Terrors of Torquay" as the media has nicknamed the menacing twosome that have been robbing various facilities in the region," the newscaster drones, "Police have just released a vague physical description of the criminals. They are said to be a young, able-bodied, and seemingly charming couple. Authorities have compiled this description from their interviews with numerous witnesses. However, the chief constable has stated that they '…are keeping the estimations deliberately vague due to the fact that the couple has utilized numerous disguises and personas during their rampage.' These aliases have included married tourists, business associates, and honeymooners. We are now hearing word that the 'Torquay Terrors' have struck again, this time at the local hotel, The Échouer Suites." Apparently, the robbers stormed the place early this morning, making off with money and valuables stolen at gunpoint. The manager was shot when he attempted to phone police, he is reportedly in stable condition."

"Oh no," Basil moans, placing his hands over his face.

"I hope that poor man recoves!" Sybil exclaims, horrified. She parks the car, switching off the radio. "This is terrible—"

"I know! The Échouer Suites aren't far from here…. In fact, they're right near Exeter International." Basil gapes, astounded. "Isn't that where all the stranded tourists came from today?"

"Yes Basil, but they all seemed quite nice," Sybil says, skeptically. "I doubt any of them are robbers."

Basil nervously glances out the car window, half-expecting the criminals to be storming up his very driveway. His paranoid gaze instead falls upon the Floridian man, who is removing luggage from the trunk of his car.

"These robbers are bound to show up. They're targeting hotels. Sybil, I don't want to get shot… _again_." Still staring at the American, Basil begins to rock back and forth. Sybil rolls her eyes at her husband's mention of his supposed involvement in the Korean War. "Robbers… As if normal guests weren't hard enough to deal with…"

"We'll just have to keep an eye out for suspicious activity. There's nothing else we can do, Basil."

"Is there?" Basil watches the umbrella-wielding American girl scurry over to help the Floridian with his suitcases. "Excuse me, Sybil."

"Basil—" It's too late, her husband is already exiting the car.

"Why hello there!" Basil gushes, artificially. The two Americans whirl around.

"Hi there, Mr. Fawlty is it?" the girl asks, pleasantly.

"Why yes. Basil Fawlty. So nice to meet you…"

"My name's Judy. Judy Norman," the girl introduces herself, "And this is my husband, Doug."

"Hi there!" Doug smiles politely.

"You're a young, able-bodied couple, aren't you?" Basil reasons, cheerfully. "Seemingly charming too."

"Thank you?" Doug grins, made somewhat uncomfortable by this blunt assessment.

"What are you doing here?" Basil's tone is suddenly sharp.

"Unpacking…"

"No, no, in Torquay. Why are you in Torquay?" Basil demands, "What brings you here?"

"It's our one year anniversary. We figured we'd do some traveling."

"One year, that's nothing to celebrate," Basil snaps, "Try surviving _fifteen_." The Normans laugh awkwardly as Mrs. Fawlty storms out of the car and totters back to the hotel. "But why is Torquay so special. I mean…. there's not much here. What were you expecting to see?"

"Well, I've got some relatives here," Judy explains. "We were hoping to visit them…"

"Relatives," Basil mutters, "A nice, safe answer…"

"What?"

"Need any help with the bags?"

"Oh, no I think we're okay, thanks," Judy says, picking up the last of the luggage.

"Whoa there, Mrs. Norman. No need to get so defensive!" Basil backs away, as if startled by her perfectly normal tone. "What, is there something you have there? Something you don't want me to see?"

"What?" Doug frowns, confused.

"What are you people hiding?" Basil hisses.

"What are you talking about?" Doug blinks, bewildered. Basil seems ready to snatch a suitcase from the nervous couple till Sybil sprints back over to control him.

"BASIL!" she shouts, hitting his arm. She turns to the Normans, expression calm and sweet, "I'm so sorry, my husband is slightly disoriented from his fall. Why don't you take a quick nap, Basil?"

"Why don't you?" he shoots back. Still smiling and waving at the American couple, Sybil grabs her husband's ear and drags him back into the hotel.

"What was that all about?" Sybil demands, once they are in the lobby, "You're scaring the guests again!"

"Doesn't it strike you a bit odd? Don't you see it? The Normans?" Basil gesticulates wildly. "Here's this young, active American couple. And they come _here_. _Here_, Sybil. They come to Torquay of all places! There's something very wrong here"

"We've gotten plenty of young couples in the past Basil. Besides, the Normans have got family…"

"You've got cousins up North, dear. Do we ever see them?"

"We would, Basil, if they hadn't filed that restraining order against _you_."

"One fire. One _tiny_ fire and suddenly I'm Satan! No one even got hurt." Basil fumes. "The whole thing wasn't even my bloody fault! You're drunken Uncle—Ugg, that's beside the point. What I'm trying to say is that the Normans fit the description of the robbers. I'm just being cautious."

"You're just being _annoying_."

"Fine. Fine! Let's see how you like it when we're murdered in our beds because I've stopped being 'annoying.'"

"What's all this about murder?" Polly inquires, stepping out from the kitchen.

"Not so loud, Polly!" Sybil whispers. "Basil here is just being his usual paranoid self."

"Is this about those 'Torquay Terrors'?"

"Yes! He's now convinced that the Normans are robbers."

"The Normans? Oh no," Polly shakes her head, "Judy seemed very nice. She tips well too."

"Tips well?" Basil freezes. "See Sybil, that just proves it. She tips well because she's got plenty of money on hand. Money that she stole." Basil turns to Polly. "What did she tip you for?"

"I brought up some lunch to the room. While you were gone."

"Why didn't that lazy Spaniard do it? What the hell do we pay him for?"

"I think Manuel was helping Mr. Norman with something."

"Really?" Basil frowns, suspicious. "MANUEL! Get in here!" The waiter scrambles into the lobby. "Manuel, listen up, I have a very important question for you." The Spaniard cheerfully awaits the inquiry. "What did you help Mr. Norman with?"

"¿Qué?"

"El Americano," Polly translates, helpfully. "¿Qué le ayuda con?"

"Ah!" Manuel nods, understanding. "I help Mr. Norman with pox."

"What?" Sybil gasps.

"He has the pox?" Basil sputters. At this the Major steps in from the lounge.

"Papers, Fawlty?"

"Here." Basil dismissively throws an extremely dated newspaper at the senile old man.

"Strikes _again_?" Major mutters, catching and reading the paper. "And another earthquake in Nicaragua? Poor chaps just can't seem to catch a break."

"Manuel, do you mean 'box?'" Polly inquires, shaping out a square with her hands.

"Ah, si!"

"What was in the box," Basil demands, testily.

"Iz surprise." Manuel smiles, sneakily.

"WHAT WAS IT?" Basil grabs him by the collar.

"Iz surprise!" Manuel pleads, frightened.

"TELL ME!"

"I tell you, iz surprise in box!"

"I don't think he knows," Polly explains, patiently, "Did Mr. Norman tell you that the box was a surprise?"

"Si!" Manuel nods, vehemently, "It secret, I bring it to room. He say, 'No mention it.'"

"If that's not suspicious then I don't know what is!" Basil declares. "Secret boxes, generous tipping…"

"You might as well call the police right away," Sybil suggests, sarcastically. "Now, CLEAN OUT THE GUTTERS!"

"Dear, it's pouring rain! Do you want me to fall _again_?"

"Basil, I've already explained this. We'll flood if you don't clean the drains."

"Fine, fine." Basil sounds surprisingly calm. Nonchalantly, he strolls off to gather the appropriate equipment. "Send Manuel to help me." Sybil blinks at her husband's sudden change of heart. Polly and Manuel stare as well.

"Well, would you two get back to work?" Sybil snaps annoyed, "Manuel, go help Basil. Polly, go help Terry." The phone rings. "Fawlty Towers! WHAT? Oh. Yes. Oh, yes. I'm so sorry. Of course. Certainly." Manuel scurries after Polly into the kitchen.

"Mrs. Fawlty, she iz different?" he whispers tentatively.

"She's been getting worse every day," Polly sighs, tiredly. "Can't say I blame her though. I think Basil's finally rubbing off on her. Now, you'd better go help Mr. Fawlty on the room before this storm gets too bad."

"Okay." The Spanish waiter races off, nearly crashing into Miss Tibbs and Miss Gatsby as he tears through the lobby. "Perdón señoritas!"

"It's quite alright, Manuel!" Miss Tibbs glances out the front door. "Oh dear, horrible day isn't it?"

"Dismal, positively dismal!" the Major asserts from the corner, shielded by his dusty, old newspaper.

"We were about to venture into town," Miss Gatsby explains, "But I fear that we shall catch nasty colds if we are out in this weather."

"Colds are rampant these days," the Major agrees, nodding "Not to mention the pox."


	3. The Search

"Meester Fawlty." Manuel stares at his employer, wide eyes brimming with terror. "I am scared."

"Scared?" Basil scowls, "What's there to be scared of, you moronic Mediterranean?" The two raincoat clad individuals are currently standing atop the roof of Fawlty Towers. Rainwater seeps down the shingles and over the clogged gutters, creating a waterfall of sorts that pours off the roof.

"I no like heights…" Manuel grips Basil's arm, desperate to achieve balance. The heavens grumble alarmingly. "And storms…"

"Quit batting those big cow eyes at me and make yourself useful," Basil growls, unmoved by the waiter's rational concerns.

"Si." Cautiously, Manuel leans over and begins digging leaves and dirt out the gutters with his small shovel.

"WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?" Basil roars, swatting the trowel out of the Spaniard's hands.

"I clean gutters, no?" Manuel frowns, confused by his boss' reaction to his hard work.

"We're not _actually_ going to clean the gutters, dummy!" Basil rolls his eyes. "We're going to find out what the hell those bloody Americans are keeping in that box of yours. They're so keen on hiding it, are they? Well, we'll just see what exactly they've concealed…"

"Que?"

"Ugg." Basil decides that outlining the entirety of his devious plan to a non-English speaker whilst dangerously perched atop a rooftop in the middle of a rainstorm would be counterproductive. "Just follow me." Grabbing the waiter by the wrist, Basil drags him along the slanting rooftop until they arrive at a certain window.

"The Normans' room," Basil explains, peeking in through the windowpane. The cozy room is unoccupied, with suitcases and bags strewn about the floor and beds. "They're not in at the moment. I want you to climb in." Basil gestures violently at the window. "Get box." He pantomimes this action as well. "And come back. Without getting caught, por favor."

"I try, Mr. Fawlty," Manuel promises, dismayed. He does not quite understand these lengthy, illegal instructions. The window's hinges are practically rusted shut, but eventually Basil and Manuel manage to pry it open. The latter slips inside, only to immediately become entangled in the fluttering drapes.

"Ayúdame!"

"Would you quit mucking about and _get that box_," Basil hisses at his ensnared employee. "Hurry up, before someone comes in!" Finally, Manuel manages to free himself and crawl over to the desk.

"Do you see it?" Basil asks, eagerly.

"No." Manuel glances around, searching about the various items of luggage. "Iz not here." Suddenly, the small waiter freezes. Eyes bulging, he sprints back towards the window, vaulting back out onto the roof.

"What happened? Did you get it?"

"No, Meester Fawlty. I hear someone in hall. I think someone come back in…"

"You are useless." Basil smacks Manuel atop his head. "It's a hotel, some people are bound to be screwing about in the hallways."

"Don't go in, Meester Fawlty," the Spaniard pleads, as Fawlty climbs in through the window, "I think Normans come back soon."

"Enough with your dire prophecies, could you just tell me what exactly the box looked like?"

"Iz square," Manuel says, helpfully.

"MORE SPECIFIC, you git!"

"Iz white. In big bag. I think I see it on desk before I run out."

"If you want something done, you have to do it yourself." The gangly, exasperated hotelier slips silently through the suite. He creeps about the empty space, furtive as a rat.

"AHH!" Manuel screams, as a flash of lightning erupts through the dark sky.

"SHUT UP! Someone'll here you!"

"Please, Meester Fawlty! I no like storms!" The waiter attempts to enter through the window, in a desperate attempt to avoid being struck by lightning.

"Oh no you don't!" Basil barks, hurrying over to stop him. "You didn't find the box so you can stay outside and wait for me. I won't have you plodding about the room getting in my way!" He slams the windows closed, trapping a shivering Manuel outside on the roof.

The lamp on the nightstand flickers. Without warning, the room is seeped in total darkness.

"Brilliant, just brilliant!" Blind, Fawlty sneaks back towards the desk. He clumsily trips over a pile of suitcases en route. The hotelier is sent flying; Basil's topple culminates with him slamming his hip into the desk. "AAGHGH."

"Meester Fawlty!" Manuel taps on the windowpane, concerned for his employer's wellbeing. "¿Estás bien?"

"I'm just peachy, thanks." In an immense amount of pain, Basil sinks to the ground.

"Do you have the room key, dear?"

"Oh yes! I must've dropped it in my purse…"

The Normans' voices echo through the blackness, they are currently standing directly outside, seconds from entering their suite. Basil pulls himself to his feet, scrambling over to the window.

"HELP ME GET THIS OPEN!" the panicked hotelier whisper-shouts, clawing at the window.

"IZ STUCK, MEESTER FAWLTY!" The door begins to rattle.

"Oh God, they're coming!" Basil swishes the drapes closed, concealing the drenched Spaniard clinging to the roof outside. Thinking quickly, he slides under the bed just as the Americans enter their hotel room.

"Oh dear, the lights are out," Mr. Norman points out.

"Shall we go alert the front desk?" Mrs. Norman inquires.

_Yes, yes, yes _wishes Basil.

"It doesn't seem anyone's down there at the moment."

_Classic Sybil, _Basil ponders, resentfully.

"Maybe we should take advantage of this darkness," Mrs. Norman suggests, playfully. The couple begins to snog, much to Basil's disgust. Desperate to escape the room, he begins to army crawl out from under the bed, under the cover of darkness. He is nearly at the slightly ajar door when Mrs. Norman screams out.

"Oh my God! Look at him!"

Basil winces and braces himself for an onslaught of frantic inquiries, untruthful excuses, and tirades and beat-downs provided by Sybil. However, the Americans have not rushed over to him, demanding an explanation for his intrusion. He dares to turn his head and notices that the drapes have been brushed aside, revealing Manuel pressed against the window. The Spaniard, in his panic, failed to move away from the window despite Basil's warnings. Instead, he chose to cling close to the window in hopes that his employer would eventually allow him entry.

Basil banks on this alarming distraction, swiftly crawling into the hallway and shedding his raincoat.

"What's wrong?" he demands, bursting back into the room dramatically.

"Someone's at the window!" Immensely startled, Judy points a shaking hand.

"Oh, don't worry my dear," Basil smiles, disconcertingly, "That's just Manuel." There is a pause, the silence filled only by the Spaniard's whimpering. "He's from Barcelona," Basil adds, helpfully.

"What's he doing out there?" Doug frowns at the hotelier.

"Just cleaning the gutters."

"In this storm?"

"He's a very hard worker, always striving to please. I told him not to do it, on account of the weather, but he simply demanded that he'd be allowed to clean the gutters today. Such a diligent fellow."

"Help," Manuel pleads, weakly tapping on the locked window. "Meester Fawlty—"

"He looks like he wants to come in," Judy observes.

"He's just joking." Basil laughs, too loudly. "What a kidder."

"_I no want to die_!" the scared Spaniard screams as Basil apologetically draws the curtains shut, grinning artificially.

"So sorry for the disturbance."

"It's no problem," Doug says, tone uncertain, "The other thing is though, our lights have gone out."

"Oh yes, I see that. I'm sure we can find you another room, I believe Number Twelve is unoccupied."

"Wonderful, thank you."

"It's no problem, now, can I help you move your luggage?" In the darkness, Basil can just make out a large bag atop the desk. He moves towards it, stealthily. Before the Normans have the chance to accept his help, Sybil bursts into the room.

"Oh no, the power has gone out!" she exclaims.

"Dear, your observational skills never cease to amaze me," Basil remarks, sarcastically.

"Mr. Fawlty has already arranged for us to move to Room Twelve," Judy informs Sybil, as the Americans begin transporting their suitcases out of the dark room.

"So, you're done cleaning the gutters already?" Sybil asks, skeptically.

"Almost. Manuel's just finishing up," Basil lies, "I came back in because the Normans needed help and _no one was at the desk_."

"I was on the phone and it was important," Sybil retorts, defensively.

"Yes, I'm sure Audrey was in desperate need of your sage advice." Basil discreetly reaches for the bag containing the box.

"No, it was my mother actually…Listen, we need to talk." Sybil grabs his arm, preventing him from acquiring the target object.

"Not now, Sybil."

"Yes now, Basil." She begins dragging him out the door.

"No, wait—" Basil attempts to maneuver back towards the desk.

"Basil, please. We're going downstairs."

"But…"

"COME ON, BASIL."

"Yes, dear."


	4. The Service

"What do you want, woman?" Basil snaps, glaring at his wife. They stand behind the front desk, facing each other suspiciously. "What was so bloody important that you had to drag me off in the middle of…" he pauses, somewhat guiltily, "…helping the guests?"

"Bas, you may want to sit down for this one," Sybil muses, ignoring his immense annoyance, "I—"

"Mrs. Fawlty?" Polly bursts into the lobby, pretty blonde hair frazzled. "I'm so sorry to interrupt—"

"_Can it wait, Polly_?" Sybil asks, in a pointedly cheerful tone.

"Not really," Polly responds, bluntly, "There's about to be a mutiny in the dining room—"

"Keelhaul the lot, that ought to teach them," Basil suggests, sarcastically.

"Seriously, Mr. Fawlty. With all the new guests, the place is packed. Manuel's nowhere to be found so I'm the only server. Terry's having trouble keeping up with the orders. Plus, we're running out of food!"

"Running out of food?" Sybil's eyes bulge. "BASIL!" He freezes in the middle of the lobby, having nearly made it to the staircase in a desperate attempt to escape his wife's wrath.

"Yes, dear?"

"Why do you never do as I ask? I told you yesterday to pick up some more groceries!"

"Manuel's on it!" Basil lies, tensely.

"I _thought_ he was still on the roof."

"I told him to run into the town and pick up some food. Stop your panicking!" Twitching nervously, he attempts to sneak past his wife, back up the stairs. Sybil grabs him by the collar, dragging him back behind the desk.

"You're the one that seems to be panicking, Basil." Her husband mops his shining forehead, eager to get away. "You're getting all sweaty…" Sybil arches her eyebrows, concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Mr. Fawlty, you seem a bit… anxious," Polly agrees.

"Anxious? Haha!" the hotelier lets out a hoarse, manic giggle, "Why would I be anxious?"

"Is this about those robbers? Is that what you're worried about?"

"Wh—what? No!" Basil pauses. "Well, what do you expect? I'm just trying to be cautious."

"Cautious? You're scaring people!" Sybil exclaims, pointing at the small cluster of guests staring from afar.

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not. Hey there!" Basil beckons the group, frenetically. "Do I frighten you?" The people quickly disperse as Sybil huffs, exasperated.

"For the love of God, Basil, could you try to at least act normal?"

"I'm perfectly normal—"

"Then prove it. Help Polly serve." Sybil shoves Basil off towards the kitchen. "If no formal complaints are filed, I just might start to believe you."

"_If no formal complains are filed_," Basil mimics in a high-pitched voice as the kitchen doors slam shut. "UGG. I've a few complaints myself…"

"So've the guests." Terry whisks the contents of a bowl vigorously. "They've been quite discontent about the lack of service."

"Well, they can simply cope with it," Basil huffs, "I mean, seriously. They all show up together out of the blue, what do they expect?"

"Mr. Fawlty, would you bring this to table seven?" the chef thrusts a steaming plate into his hands. A chorus of grumbles arises as Basil darts into the dining room.

"My family's been waiting for an hour!" one indignant, rotund man cries. His obese wife and children nod in agreement. "We're starving!"

"Really?" Basil mutters, "It doesn't appear that you've gone too hungry. Help yourself to some complimentary butter packets before the meal. Oh wait, I see you've already dug into those…" The hotelier reaches table seven, setting down the food.

"Excuse me, are you the owner of this establishment?" demands the shriveled old lady sitting there.

"Why yes, yes I am."

"I'd like to file a complaint."

"Damn!" Basil curses, remembering his words with Sybil.

"_Excuse me_?"

"Sorry. What's gone wrong?"

"I don't appreciate being spied upon as I dine."

"Spied upon?" Basil glances about, confused. "Who's spying on you?"

"That gentleman." The old woman gestures out the window. A terrified Manuel hangs there, barely clinging to the edge of the roof.

"Oh." Basil tilts his head, pondering the situation. The other guests take notice as well; startled exclamations fill the dining hall.

"HELP ME!" the waiter mouths, grip slipping.

"Manuel!" Polly cries, horrified.

"Yep," Basil agrees, quietly, "Found him."


	5. The Guest

"AAAAAIIIIII!" Shrieking in terror, Manuel lets go of the rattling gutter and tumbles to the sodden yard outside. Horrified screams and gasps punctuate the shocked silence that descends upon the numerous tables.

"What's going on in here?" Sybil demands, barging into the room. "I heard screaming, Basil…."

"Oh yes!" With artificial cheer, Basil begins to chuckle warmly. "We _were_ screaming in here…. at Polly's funny jokes!" There is an awkward, incredulous silence. "Tell her, Polly!"

"Mrs. Fawlty, Manuel fell off the roof!" a panicked Polly informs her employer, blue eyes wide.

"AHAHAHAHAHA!" Basil guffaws, doubling over. With the skill of a trained Method actor, the hotelier throws himself into the ruse, plunging to the floor in a sprawling fit of hysterics. "Oh, stop it, Polly! That's just _too_ funny!" He glances about, looking to the patrons for support. "Isn't she hilarious everyone?" No one responds. Glaring at the unfeeling Mr. Fawlty, Polly storms over to check on the potentially injured Spaniard.

"Manuel! He's gone!" she exclaims, upon reaching the window. Several concerned customers follow her over to the dripping pane, as Basil's fake-laughter continues to swell about the dining hall.

"What is going on around here?" Sybil snaps, icily. "What's all this about Manuel being on the roof? Basil, I thought you said he was in town shopping?"

"That—well, that's where it gets really funny!" Basil squeaks, fumbling to maintain his expanding web of lies. Pausing, he hears the certain squeak of hinges echoing from the lobby. "Is that the front door opening?"

"Don't change the—"

"Hola!" Soaking wet and disheveled from his fall, Manuel staggers back into the crowded room. "I alive! Gracias a Dios!"

"Manuel!" Polly hurries over to hug her friend. "Are you alright?"

"Alright, Basil. Please explain." Sybil hisses, gaze darting between her employee and husband. Before the poor Spaniard can say anything, Basil grabs him by the earlobe.

"I thought I told you to go get groceries?" the deceitful hotelier snarls, "What's the matter with you?"

"Que?" Manuel whimpers, breaking free and ducking for cover behind Sybil.

"Leave him alone, Basil," she snarls, smacking her husband's arm.

"Oh sure, take his side! Syb, he doesn't listen and he's a bloody horrible worker! Its like he doesn't speak English or something!" Basil huffs. "Oh, hang on, he _doesn't_!"

"And that's _my_ fault?" Sybil retorts. "You're the one that wanted cheap, foreign help! Don't blame me for the fact that you're a miserly, mean—"

"Excuse me," the rather obese guest bellows, "A little less fighting, a little more feeding! We've been waiting for our meal for over an hour!"

"Yes sir, I'll fetch it straight away, sir!" Basil snips, stomping off towards the kitchen, "One industrial size trough with all the trimmings coming right up!"

* * *

Temples throbbing, Basil stalks about the hotel lobby. His intuition is telling him that the infamous robbers are residing in his own hotel, a belief that frustrates him to no end. This angst is not due to his anxiety over the safety of his staff and customers. It cannot be attributed to his pride for Fawlty Towers either; such a feeling is virtually nonexistent. It's the idea of the whole thing that's disturbing Basil. Regular guests are bad enough, making off with towels, tiny shampoo bottles, and every waking minute of his pitiful existence. Now here were guests that took it a step further, stealing not only his time but his money as well!

However, instead of protecting his meager livelihood, he was assigned to patrol the empty lobby. If only Sybil possessed his infinite perceptiveness. Then she would allow him to spy on the guests instead of forcing him to man the bloody telephone as a punishment for insulting the diners. Manuel is off buying groceries, for real this time, and Polly is cleaning up after the lunch crowd. Sybil is God knows where, probably off on the telephone complaining about him to her batty mother and condescending friends... Grumbling to himself, Basil busies himself by glaring at the moose head adorning the wall. His dark expression brightens slightly as a stylish, pretty woman enters the room. Before Basil can say a word, Sybil is there. Right on time.

"How can I help you?" the protective wife asks, dashing behind the desk and discreetly shoving her husband out of the path of the oncoming temptation. Basil scowls.

"Hello, my name is Erica Praline." The guest's voice is low and pleasant. "I'm in Room Twenty Six. I was just wondering if you could send up our bags?"

"Room Twenty Six?" Basil interjects, confused. "I brought up those bags myself…"

"Really?" Praline bites her lip. "Well, we didn't receive them."

"Oh dear," Sybil murmurs, concerned, "Are you staying with anyone else? Could they have moved the luggage?"

"It's just me and my auntie." Erica gestures as the fragile old woman from the dining hall totters into the lobby. "I doubt she'd have the strength to move all of those bags."

"It's starting," Basil whispers, eyes wide. "Oh my God. They've struck again…"

"I'm sorry, what's starting?" Erica inquires, innocently.

"Basil, hush." Sybil laughs, nervously. "Miss Praline, I'm sure it's just a honest mix-up…"

"No. I'm bloody certain that I brought up the luggage for Room Twenty Six," her husband insists, indignantly facing Erica. "I'd like to check you—I mean… ummm… the room— out for myself!"

Under Sybil's jealous gaze, Basil importantly leads the attractive young woman (and her wizened auntie) upstairs to search for the missing luggage.


	6. The Gator

"I put the bags right there." Basil vehemently gestures at the floor near the closet. "On that very spot." The area he is referring to is currently devoid of any luggage.

"Oh dear." Erica bites her lip.

"I just can't stand this." Extremely agitated, the hotelier smacks a palm against his forehead.

"Could they have been… _stolen_?"

"That's just what I'm afraid of," Basil mutters, "Do you mind if I look about your room for a moment?"

"No, go right ahead!" Erica smiles, coyly. "But Mr. Fawlty... who on Earth would want to steal our bags?"

"Haven't you heard about the Terrors of Torquay?" Fawlty snaps, growing impatient.

"Oh dear! But surely they're not here, at this hotel?" Erica blinks, expression cheerfully blank. "It's not a terribly well-known place, is it?" Basil scowls at this.

"I'll have you know that Fawlty Towers has been consistently ranked the 31st best hotel in all of Torquay." Desperate for clues, Basil drops to the ground and begins to crawl about the room. He is so focused upon his intensive search that he never notices the guest eying him hungrily. "And it'd be higher if it weren't for the bloody riff-raff that frequent the place."

"You mean the guests?"

"Yes. They—" Basil yelps suddenly, in immense pain. "Ahhh! I just stabbed myself!"

"Oh dear!" Erica crouches beside him, gently taking up his injured hand. The hotelier quickly shakes her off. "On what?"

"A reptile." Frowning, Basil picks a small, shining pin off the rug. The design is one of a rather infuriated alligator. "Is this yours?"

"No. I've never seen it before."

"An alligator?" The hotelier's face breaks into a rather evil grin. "A gator!" Jumping up, Basil initiates a maniacal victory dance. "An alligator, Erica! I've got them! I've got them!"

"Mr. Fawlty…" The girl stares, eyes wide with concern. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Those bloody Americans! The Normans! They're from Florida!" Basil waves the cheap college pin about, in a state of ecstatic triumph. "Your bags go missing and we just happen to find an alligator pin at the scene of the crime! This proves it!"

"I think I understand! Does this mean that you can get my bags back?"

"I believe so!"

"Wonderful." Without warning, the guest wraps her arms about Basil. "That was simply brilliant."

"Brilliant?" Slightly uncomfortable, Basil attempts to escape her surprisingly strong embrace. "What's brilliant?"

"You are." Erica bats her eyelashes, smiling coyly at Fawlty. "Your mind. It's…. _sexy_."

"It's also married." Basil bluntly brushes her away. Giggling, the girl continues to encroach upon his personal space.

"A married, sexy mind?" Erica forcefully shoves him towards the bed. "I'm into that."

"Oh come now, Miss Praline," Basil glowers, indignant over this unexpected seduction, "I'm afraid that now's just not a good time." He freezes, reconsidering this wording. "In fact, no time would be _good_, but this moment is especially inconvenient. I simply must be getting to the Normans before they rob any more customers."

"Don't leave," she sulks, "The Normans can wait."

"I'm afraid that crime waits for no man," Basil informs her, darting away from the clingy guest.

"It's not like they're going anywhere. I just saw them hanging about Room 23."

The hotelier-turned-investigator halts en route to the door.

"Room 23? What were they doing exactly?"

"Just whispering. They kept looking around. It was weird." Erica shrugs. "Almost as if they were _hiding something_."

"I see…" Basil ponders this clue, mind in a swirl of conspiracy theories, irritation, and general paranoia.

"Now will you stay?" The attractive girl begins to slink towards him again.

"No." Utilizing his spindly legs, Basil makes a desperate dash for the door. "But feel free to help yourself to any of the unsuspecting yobbos loitering about the village."

"But they won't be like you!" Erica cries, watching him as he races away from her, down the hallway. "The way you deduced all that about the pin. It was just like… oh, what's that bloke's name?"

"Sherlock Holmes?" Fawlty stops in the middle of the corridor.

"Is he the one with the hat?"

Basil blinks.

"Listen, Miss Praline, I'd simply love to stay and continue this enthralling discussion of the great Victorian literary characters, but I'm afraid that more pressing matters must be attended to."

* * *

"Hola? I am return!" Arms quaking under the weight of the crinkling paper bags, a drenched Manuel steps into the abandoned lobby. The tempest is still raging outside; Torquay is a green-gray blur of flailing trees and moody sky. Manuel is surprisingly cheerful for a man that has just returned from a grocery-expedition completed on bicycle through a ferociously raging storm. "Meeses Fawlty?"

"Manuel!" Polly rushes over to help him with the bulky parcels. "There you are! Did you get everything on the list?"

"Si!" The two enter the kitchen, where Terry has already begun prepping for the upcoming dinner. Considering the sheer number of guests currently residing in the hotel, this meal is shaping up to be a major production.

"Wonderful." Terry looks over the newly purchased ingredients. "Looks like you got everything. We'd best get started, so we're not overwhelmed later…"

"First, I must show you." Manuel glances about, sneakily. "I get president for Basil."

"President for Basil?" Polly frowns, bewildered.

"See?" Manuel produces a furry, whiskered creature from his jacket. Polly and Terry recoil for a moment, only to realize that the beady-eyed creature being waved about by Manuel is indeed a stuffed, toy rat.

"Oh. A present." The pretty waitress laughs. "For _that_ Basil."

"Si! He look lonely recently. Iz new friend!"

"A stuffed rat…." Polly examines the strange toy, bemused. "Where did you get this?"

"I know a guy," is the cryptic answer.

"Well, you'd better put that away before Mr. Fawlty sees it," the cook laughs, attempting to mince vegetables whilst simultaneously greasing up a frying pan, "You know how he feels about your pet."

"Si! I hide it in pocket."

"So Terry, what can we do for you now, before things get chaotic?" Polly asks, helpful as usual.

"Hmm. Would someone head downstairs and bring me up a bottle of wine?"

"Which wine?" Polly asks.

"Doesn't matter. Whatever's cheapest."

"I get it, Polly!" Manuel chivalrously volunteers, throwing open the door to the wine cellar. The eager Spaniard trips over his own feet at the top of the dark stairs, plummeting out of sight. "AHH!"

"Manuel!" Polly and Terry cry, wincing as they listen for the inevitable crash.

It never comes.


	7. The Basement

_Splash!_

The sizzling frying pan slices through the silence in the kitchen, as Polly and Terry stand bewildered by the uniquely aquatic sound that has just echoed up from the wine cellar.

"_Ayúdame_!" comes the sputtering please. "I drown!"

"Hang on Manuel!" Polly cries, racing down the stairs to his aid. Her intentions of rescue are dashed when she slides and stumbles down into the blackness of the basement. Her plunge is softened by dark, inexplicable water.

"Polly?" the concerned cook calls, from the kitchen. Spitting out the cold water, the soaked waitress thinks to warn Terry just as he too crashes down next to her, having slipped on the damp stairs.

"Oh God!" he coughs, "What the hell?"

"I think the basement's flooded," Polly mumbles, sarcastically. "Where's Manuel?"

"I here!" The Spaniard is currently clinging to a wine storage rack in the corner of the basement. "I cannot _sweem_."

"Just stand up, Manuel. It's not that deep."

"No." Traumatized, Manuel grips the shelves tighter, knocking several wine bottles into the murky water. "I _drown_."

"Hold on, I'll help you." Polly struggles through the knee-deep water to assist the panicking waiter. "How on Earth did this happen?"

"The ground outside's probably saturated from the storm," Terry suggests, wringing out his dripping sleeves.

"See? No es _profunda_." Polly gently pulls the Spaniard to his feet; he hugs her for support. "Still, Terry, this all happened awfully quickly. I was down here only thirty minutes ago, and there was no sign of flooding." Her blue eyes flicker to the ground-level window on the far side of the cellar. A steady stream of water is gushing from the corners of the pane. "Look at that."

Manuel, Polly, and Terry trudge over to the apparent source of the flood. The cook curiously taps the tired glass. It rattles and drops away, allowing an unstoppable deluge of rainwater to surge into the basement. Terry and Manuel are nearly knocked over by the sheer force of the downpour. Thinking quickly, Polly manages to halt the torrent by plugging the destroyed window with several sopping pillows and a small table.

"That water was overflowing from the gutters," the waitress whispers, "Wasn't Mr. Fawlty supposed to clean those out today?"

* * *

Basil creeps towards the office adjacent to the lobby, movements distinctly rodent-esque. He is on a quest to obtain the keys for Room 23. A discreet episode of knock-a-door-dash has revealed that the Normans are currently occupying their own hotel room, preventing an effective search of that area. Left with no other option, Basil has decided to follow up on Erica's observations by conducting an inspection of the seemingly empty Room 23 in hopes of uncovering some more incriminating evidence against the American couple.

"Fawlty!" Major Gowen strides towards the sneaking hotelier.

"Ah, afternoon Major," Basil says, quietly.

"Listen, Fawlty." The ancient soldier's eyes shift about. "Miss Gatsby informed me that there are some so-called robbers running amok in Torquay…"

"Really?"

"I just thought I'd offer my services." The grinning old man produces an archaic pistol from his jacket. Basil jumps at Gowen determinedly slams the weapon down on the lobby desk. "If it's one thing I can't stand, its stolen luggage. Just point me in the direction of those rapscallions, I'll take care of everything…"

"I appreciate that, Major," Basil laughs, nervously. "But we mustn't get ahead of ourselves here."

"Certainly, certainly," the military man admits.

"We wouldn't want a repeat of the _truffle incident_, now would we?"

"No, no, of course not." Vigilante aspirations temporarily subdued by this memory, Major Gowen retrieves his gun and strolls back into the lounge. Basil sighs, relieved to have diffused that potentially fatal situation.

"Mr. Fawlty!"

"Oh God!" the tall man spits, "What now?" He turns to face Polly. Much to his surprise, the waitress is soaking wet. "What…what's happened? Were you just outside?"

"No." Polly blinks, horrified. "I was just in the basement."

* * *

"We can't tell Sybil." Basil lies curled up on the kitchen floor, eyes bulging with a sort of primal terror. "I'll be murdered."

"Si," Manuel agrees. "She _kill_ you." Fawlty does not argue.

"A flooded basement." The hotelier rocks back and forth, numbly. "I just can't believe it."

"I can," Polly mutters.

"_Excuse me_?" Basil leaps up, incensed. "What's that supposed to mean, Sherman?"

"Why didn't you just clean out the gutters?" Polly fumes. "Then none of this would've happened! What were you even doing on the roof?"

"Polly, I'll let you in on a little secret." Fawlty crosses his arms, in a huff. "Fawlty Towers, the primary source of your pitiful income, is currently under attack."

"Yes, from the weather." Terry nods at the door leading down into the basement.

"I'm afraid that this problem is far more sinister," Basil shakes his head, gravely, "We have been invaded by… the robbers."

"Robbers?" Polly scoffs, "You're not on about that again, are you Mr. Fawlty?"

"I most certainly am, Polly! Someone's luggage has already been stolen. It's _started_!"

"Hello?" The kitchen doors blast open, revealing a rather curious Sybil. "What's going on in here?" She pauses, glancing over her staff. "Why are you three dripping wet?"

"AND DON'T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN!" Basil roars, shaking his fist angrily. "Would you believe it, Sybil?" He shakes his head at the perplexed employees. "These three idiots decided to have a water balloon fight in the middle of the kitchen. I've never seen such unprofessional behavior in my life!" Sybil raises her eyebrows. "I'd suggest that you dunces refrain from such tomfoolery in the future. This is a hotel, not a babysitting service!" Basil turns quite red. "NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" There is an uncomfortable pause.

"Ummm. Mr. Fawlty?" Terry the Cook gestures about at the kitchen. "Wouldn't you like us to finish the dinner first?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Just get back to work; no more shenanigans. " Basil drifts out into the lobby, with Sybil in tow. "Can you believe that? That's the kind of ridiculous behavior I've to put up with from this staff!"

"Water balloons?" Sybil squints. "Really?"

"Really," Basil nods, blankly. "If today weren't so chaotic I'd have sacked them all on the spot."

"So, did you find Miss Praline's bags?" Mrs. Fawlty asks, struggling to repress the edge of jealousy in her voice.

"Oh, no. But I found something much, much better."

"What, Basil?" Sybil glowers, misreading her husband's dreamy expression.

"A clue."

"Oh dear, please don't tell me that you're still obsessing over those robbers."

"I'm not obsessing!"

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"So what if I am?" Basil snaps, shrugging. "I'm just actively attempting to protect this hotel! It happens to be my job, my Beautiful Barracuda!"

"Yes, Basil," Sybil sighs, staring at her husband with sad eyes, "You're alienating guests and neglecting your managerial duties in an effort to protect the hotel from a nonsensical threat." She waves about the lobby. "This happens to be _our_ job. Together. Or have you forgotten, Basil?"

"Oh. Okay. I see how it is. Well Miss-Ohhhh-I-Know-On-The-Phone-All-Day, how exactly have I neglected my managerial duties?" Basil demands.

"I am forced to beat you over the head in order to get you to accomplish anything! You took forever to do the gutters—" Basil swallows, looking slightly guilty "— and you never got that tree looked at!" Sybil says, accusingly, "It's probably rotted by now. That's a major litigation, literally hanging over our heads!"

"Calm down, woman. The aborists I called Tuesday said it looked fine," Basil lies, "You'd have known that, had you not gone out golfing all day with your girlfriends. So if you want to find someone to criticize for not pulling their weight, I suggest you look in a mirror!"

"Are you calling me _fat_?" Sybil screeches, suddenly irrational.

"What—no!" It's too late. The flustered Basil is clobbered across the face with the dangerously wielded guest registry. The blow sends him clattering into the lobby desk; dazed, he watches his wife storm away into the dining room, off to quell her wrath with a cup of tea and copious amounts of bacon. "_Yes_!" Elated by the opportunity her absence presents, Fawlty army-crawls into the office, snatching up the sparkling keys to Room 23. Blinded by his jingling prize, Basil nearly skips straight into Polly upon returning to the lobby.

"Water balloons?" The resentful waitress folds her arms. "_Really_?" Basil shrugs, uncaring as usual. "Well, we've got to clean up that basement before Mrs. Fawlty finds out."

"Yes, of course," Basil says, growing impatient, "But first, Polly, you are to help me with an even more important task."

"Does it involve me disguising as your wife?" Polly demands, suspicious.

"No, no. Don't worry; it's not that again. I just need you to keep lookout."

"Lookout for what?" The skeptical waitress asks, as she is practically hauled up the stairs by Basil. "What will you be doing?"

"What will I be doing?" Fawlty smirks at this inquiry. "Busting those damned Yankees, of course!"


	8. The Cake

"Ah, here we are. Room 23. According to the books, there's a couple staying here, but they've been out for some time now. The place is deserted. Possibly, those guests are accomplices. Or maybe, the Americans have gotten to them already. Either way, Miss Praline saw the Normans lurking about this very room, conniving in hushed tones."

Like a giddy child viewing the circus for the first time, Basil hops in place and points wildly as he and Polly linger outside the hotel room.

"They could've been talking about _anything_, Mr. Fawlty! Family, TV programs, Henry Kissinger. Just because they weren't screaming at the top of their lungs doesn't mean they're vicious criminals. Not all married couples converse as obnox—err—shrilly as you and Mrs. Fawlty!"

"This _must_ be the place they've hidden the box," Basil whispers, not bothering to listen to Polly's valid concerns.

"Box?"

"Yes, yes, the secret box Manuel carried up for Mr. Norman," the hotelier informs her, growing impatient, "I believe it contains their weapons and/or their loot. A deposit box of sorts."

"A secret box?"

"Yes."

"Why Mr. Fawlty, you really _have_ lost it this time."

"Polly, do I pay you to evaluate my mental health?" Basil snaps.

"No."

"What do I pay you to do?"

"Wait tables," Polly responds, dully, "And by that I mean keep watch while you invade guests' privacy."

"Good girl," Fawlty grins, patting her on the head, "Now, just let me know if the room's occupants, my wife, and/or the armed robbers show up."

"Sure, thing." Polly gives her employer a rather sarcastic thumbs-up. The ever-manic Basil darts into the emptyhotel room. Sighing, the waitress leans heavily against the door, listening to the thunder rumble outside.

* * *

"Any luck, Mr. Fawlty?" Polly calls, tiredly. It's been about twenty minutes; the snooping hotelier still hasn't found the "secret box" or any other evidence implicating the Normans.

"Not yet. But it won't be long now!"

The waitress rolls her eyes at this optimistic prophecy.

"Polly, what are you doing up here?" The pretty blonde jumps, thoroughly startled by Sybil's sudden appearance. Mrs. Fawlty storms towards the apparently lazy waitress, soft features sharpened by exasperation.

"Just… relaxing for a bit."

"Relaxing?"

"Yes." Polly grins, hoping to appear earnest. "I was up all night putting the finishing touches on my art portfolio. I really want my professor to be wowed. Now I'm just exhausted…"

"You—you're serious? You think _you_ need relaxation?" The short but formidable woman's eyes bulge dangerously. "You can't even begin to imagine the stress I've been under! Today of all days, everyone's gone mad. You and Manuel and Terry decide to have a water balloon fight, Basil decides to go off and flirt with some dotty guest, and to top it all off, I'm bloody—" Sybil catches her breath, pausing. "I'm tired. Very tired."

"Sorry," Polly squeaks.

"Listen, we're going to have a huge crowd for dinner tonight. Not only do we have more guests than usual, but also virtually everyone is staying in to eat because of the storm. Terry is in dire need of help preparing dinner. So unless you can come up with a more legitimate reason to be up here, I suggest you report to the kitchens immediately."

"Certainly, Mrs. Fawlty." As her boss starts to shuffle down the stairs, Polly whirls around. "ALRIGHT, MRS. FAWLTY! I'LL STOP HANGING ABOUT ROOM 23 IMMEDIATELY! I WILL NO LONGER BE STATIONED OUTSIDE THIS PARTICULAR ROOM! I WILL NOW FOLLOW YOU DOWN TO THE KITCHEN, LEAVING THIS ROOM COMPLETELY UNWATCHED!"

"My Lord, Polly, there's no reason to shout about it! I'm standing right here."

"Sorry, Mrs. Fawlty."

Ignoring all the deliberate yelling out in the hallway, Basil continues to scramble about the now-unguarded Room 23, searching for the mysterious box.

"Where is this bloody thing?" he growls, dropping to the ground near the bed. Reaching underneath the screechy mattress, Fawlty's hand brushes against a smooth, cubical object. His heart begins to pound as he pulls the elusive box out into the open.

"Aha!" Basil cries, hugging the package to his chest. Jubilant over his discovery, he examines the medium-sized parcel. It is white, constructed out of cardboard, and tied with string…

A familiar jingling at the door rips Basil's attention away from his critical finding. He holds his breath. Keys clink into the lock.

"Damnit, Sherman." Basil curses his employee's ineffectiveness as a sentinel. Clutching the box, the hotel owner slips into the bathroom, making sure to bolt himself in.

As an oblivious couple steps into their room, the hidden hotelier situates himself in their empty bathtub, enthusiastically tearing open the package.

"Jewels, cash, what've you got in here?" he mutters to himself. Basil rips the box open, hands trembling with anticipation. He gazes into the depths of the container, shocked by what he has unwrapped.

It's a cake. A rather pretty one at that; decorated with delicate white frosting and fragile little flowers spiraling about the edges. Noticing its scarlet hue, Basil recognizes it as a red velvet cake. The kind Sybil had wanted for their wedding all those years ago. He had argued for a simple lemon number instead. Too sour, she had protested, shooting him one of her scary gazes. The bitter stalemate that ensued had resulted in the young couple settling for a ghastly fruitcake procured by Sybil's shifty uncle in the eleventh hour of reception preparations. In retrospect, simply purchasing two cakes may have produced a more appetizing outcome….

"_Cake_?" Basil squints, confused by his finding. Then it dawns upon him. "Those clever bastards. They've hid the stuff in the cake to get it past Customs on their way back to Florida!" Grinning devilishly, the hotel owner begins to dig through the sweet, tender culinary creation.

"Did you hear that?" the female occupant of the room asks. Her accent is thoroughly British, Basil realizes, at least these people aren't those vile, American Normans.

"I don't hear anything," says the man who is presumably her husband. "Now love, I have a bit of a surprise for you." Curious, Basil eavesdrops.

"What?" the woman asks, excitedly.

"In honor of our anniversary, I bought you a lovely red velvet cake!"

Basil blinks.

"Dear, that's lovely! But it's not our anniversary."

"Not of our marriage. Of the first time I lay eyes upon you."

"Oh, that's so romantic!"

Horrified, Basil desperately begins trying to piece the demolished desert back together. "I also called room service, they're coming with some champagne to celebrate!"

"Oh, Michael, you're the best! Red velvet's my favorite!"

"I _know_ dear! I gave Doug and Judy the extra key drop it off earlier… If only I could find the damn thing… I told Doug to leave the cake under the bed so I could properly surprise you!"

"Well, you know your American cousin. He's always a bit disorganized. Look, he's even left your briefcase on the floor…"

"That's odd. I just asked Doug to drop off the cake and go. But someone's moved my all stuff. I left my briefcase on the desk before we left. And look, someone's just tossed our toiletry bag on the floor! This room's been searched!"

"Shhhh. I think I do hear something coming from the bathroom!"

"I hear it too." Basil freezes, paralyzed by fear. The locked bathroom doorknob rattles. "EXCUSE ME? IS SOMEONE IN THERE?" The panicking hotelier attempts to flee via the window, only to find that he is unable to open it.

"O'Reilly, you bastard," he hisses, "These windows are all bloody fire hazards!"

"Whoever's in there, come out immediately!" Michael orders, tone firm but polite. Struggling to keep his expression casual, the trapped Basil emerges from the bathroom, squished cake in hand.

"What the hell?" the woman whispers, bewildered.

"Hello, my name is Basil Fawlty. I am the owner of this hotel," he informs them, as if this fact will somehow excuse his bizarre actions, "And according to my notes, you are Michael and Helen Pal—"

"That's—that's our cake!" the blonde woman named Helen exclaims, pointing to the mangled bake dessert that Basil is holding. "What on Earth have you done to it?"

"Well, you can never be too careful nowadays. We've had several nasty incidents involving unsafe baked good recently," Basil informs them, icily. "I'm pleased to inform you that this cake has passed my safety inspection."

"You came in here and destroyed my anniversary present for my wife?" Michael demands. He has the dangerous look of an easygoing man enraged by an unexpected turn of events.

"I can explain—" Basil is cut off when the door into the hallway swings open clipping him on the shoulder. Off balance, he falls, pressing the mess of the cake into Helen's face. She screams, and bursts into tears.

"HOW DARE YOU!" her husband yells, as the woman wipes the disgusting muddle of icing out of her eyes.

"Room service!" A grinning Manuel enters the room, bearing champagne.

"LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO, YOU BLOODY BALATRON!" Basil shouts at the waiter, swinging his fist.

"Que?" Manuel dodges the manager's blows, bewildered. Worked up into a dreadful frenzy, Basil grabs the champagne bottle and begins chasing the Spaniard about the hotel room.

"STOP IT!" Michael screams. "PLEASE GET OUT OF MY HOTEL ROOM IMMEDIATELY!"

"Meester Fawlty, please—" Manuel cowers behind Michael. In the midst of his angry sprint, Basil manages to slip on some of the squished cake that has been dropped to the ground. This misstep causes him to stumble and pitch forward, arms flailing. The champagne bottle is sent spinning into the air. It comes down with a glorious, golden crash.

Right atop Michael's head.

* * *

"_Oh I knooow_, mother." Sybil prattles into the phone. "I _knoooow_. All men are the same. I can't get a word in edgewise with him sometimes." She pauses. "No. I haven't told him yet. It's just so hard to talk to him …" Sybil smirks. "No, mum. I'm not leaving him. Not yet, anyways. Alright, I'll talk to you later."

"Hello," comes a rather droning voice. An old nun leading a troupe of quiet, uniformed young children approaches the lobby desk.

"Good evening, sister," Sybil smiles. "How may I help you?"

"My name is Mother Jones, I come from St. Attila of Antioch's School for Orphans. Do you have a few spare rooms? Today was supposed to be the last day of the orphanage's field trip, but the flights back to London have all been rained out. And most of the other nearby hotels have no vacancies…"

"We're quite booked up actually…" Sybil's eyes soften, noticing the children's exhausted yawns, "But we do have a few rooms available, I'm sure we can fit you in. It might be a bit crowded though."

"Oh that's absolutely fine! Thank you, you are most gracious! Just one more thing…" the nun adds, anxiously. "Is this hotel, safe? Is this a good area of Torquay? We had to leave the last inn; it just seemed quite unsafe. Dirty streets, seedy characters milling about…"

"Don't worry, Fawlty Towers is in a very safe area," Sybil assures her. "Lovely people, secure neighborhood!"

"Wonderful," Mother Jones smiles. "I was so worried that we were in another loony bin."

"No, there aren't any crazy people here," Sybil laughs, obnoxiously, "Everyone is quite sane—" She is interrupted by the violent commotion spilling down the stairs.

"Ayúdame! Ayúdame!"

"I'll bloody kill you!"

"Please, Meester Fawlty! Por favor, no apuñalar a mí!"

"Get back here you Iberian imbecile!"

The individuals in the lobby watch in horror as the frightened waiter tumbles down the stairs, vaults over the front desk, and takes cover behind Mrs. Fawlty. Next, Basil stomps after him, hands coated in a dark red substance. The effect is quite gory. He is clutching a shattered champagne bottle, swinging it wildly. He chases Manuel about the desk several times, before downing him with a violent slide tackle.

"Please no kill me!" the poor waiter pleads. "You kill man in Room 23, don't kill me!"

Mother Jones screams.

"Run children! Run! Get back to the bus!" she orders her charges. Mouth agape, Sybil watches the shrieking schoolchildren flee.

Basil takes note of this as well.

"Wait! I was just kidding around!" he calls, chasing after the group through the frigid rain. "We always joke around like that! This is just cake!" He holds up his hands. "We didn't mean to frighten you! _I'm not crazy, I own this place!_" One brave little girl turns around and kicks him in the shin. The hotel manager drops to the ground in pain as thunder bursts overhead. "Stop the bus! Come back!" Struggling up, Basil sprints after the departing bus. He chases after it down the driveway, until Mother Jones switches the gears into reverse, forcefully hitting the suspected madman and halting his pursuit of the bus. Defeated, Basil does not bother to pick himself off the wet pavement, allowing the drops of rain to wash the red velvet cake from his hands.

"Mr. Fawlty!" Polly rushes over to her fallen boss, having witnessed the entire incident from the kitchen window. "What on Earth happened?"

"What _happened_? More like what _hasn't_ happened! Polly, this is all your fault!" the manager accuses, as the waitress helps him to his feet. "Why didn't you keep look out like I asked?"

"Your wife made me run off to help Terry!" Polly protests. "There was nothing I could do. I tried shouting to alert you!"

"Damnit, Polly! In the future please ignore that silly woman."

"Err. Mr. Fawlty…"

"What? It's simple, Sherman. From now on just listen to me! Forget that Flying Tart." Basil frowns as the waitress covers her pretty face with her hands. "What's the matter?" Fawlty freezes, sensing someone behind him. He whirls around to face his fuming wife. "Sybil! There you are! I was just explaining to Polly that we've already got plenty of items for dessert. So she can forget the tarts!"

This pathetic lie fails, understandably.

"You know, Basil, sometimes I think you're going out of your way to destroy this hotel. And our marriage." Blinking back tears, Sybil slaps Basil across the face and storms over to her car.

"Wait! Syb…" Hazel eyes sad, Basil follows her. "Where are you going?"

"Audrey's just called."

"_There's a surprise_."

"There's been a flash flood at Torquay Harbour, she's stranded. I'm going to pick her up."

"B-but what about the dinner? What about all the guests?"

"They're your responsibility now. I'm done. I'm just done. Manuel's hysterical back there, he thinks that you've murdered someone. Miss Tibbs won't shut up about the bloody pox. People won't stop complaining about the lack of service. And you're too busy searching for burglars and throwing yourself at daft girls to care."

"Syb, I—"

"Save it. I just watched you descend into a mad fit, single handedly driving away an entire orphanage. I'm not in the mood to hear what you have to say." Sybil shakes her head, bitterly. "And on top of all that, dinner's still not ready."

"Not to mention the basement's fl—" Polly begins, before Basil shoots her a silencing glare.

"I've been handling everything, Basil, as you've been skulking about after your robbers." Mrs. Fawlty's pile of curly hair seems to sink in the rain. She opens the car door with surprising force. "And I'm done. It's your problem now. When I get back, you'd better have everything in order. Or else."

"Or else what?" Basil inquires, numbly.

"I'll be forced to kill, fire, and divorce you."

"In that order?"

Sybil does not respond; she is too busy slamming the acceleration, furiously driving away into the storm. Basil watches her leave, before glancing anxiously towards Fawlty Towers.

"I've got to keep those people from Room 23 from calling the police…."

"_What_? Did they catch you sneaking about their room?"

"Well…yes… and-I-sort-of-knocked-the-husband-unconscious-with-a-champagne-bottle," Fawlty hastily confesses.

"You did _what_?"

"Oh dear, I do hope he's not dead."

"Mr. Fawlty," the waitress mutters, glaring at her employer, "You've really done it this time."

Basil and Polly march back to the hotel in silence. As they enter into the lobby, there is a sickening crack. The pair whirls around just in time to glimpse a shard of lightning flash across the sky. There is a massive gust of wind; the rotting tree in front of Fawlty Towers sways dangerously.

"Please God, no," Basil pleads, quietly. His prayers go unanswered. A large branch snaps off the top of the tree and sails straight into the tangle of wires hovering near the house. The lights flicker feebly and then die entirely. Despite the storm, there is still just enough light to see reasonably well. Still, as the night progresses, Fawlty Towers is sure to transform into a pit of darkness. Polly turns to observe her boss' reaction. His expression is placid, but she knows that this calm exterior is just masking the raging panic within. "Okay, the power's out. Well, at least this means the Normans' British cousins won't be calling the police anytime soon." He glances at the waitress. "Always look on the bright side of life, Polly."

"But Mister Fawlty, no power also means that none of the kitchen appliances will work!" Basil claps a hand to his pale forehead as Major Gowen trots over.

"The lights seem to have gone, Fawlty," the doddering old-timer announces, "Probably should've had that tree looked at earlier."

"Ah, yes, Major. Of course. I should have had those arborists over Tuesday." Face still completely blank, Basil begins viciously kicking the wall. This beating disturbs the large, mounted moose-head, causing it to slide down. The gross wall ornament strikes the frazzled hotelier, knocking him to the floor. He clutches his head, wincing. "Damnit!"

"Meester Fawlty!" Having already recovered from the traumatizing cake incident, Manuel scampers forward. "I help!" Along with Polly, the cheerful Spaniard begins attempting to reposition the moose-head. "I get hammer—"

"I'll get the nails!" Polly volunteers, darting behind the front desk, "And some candles."

"Oh, Fawlty," the Major calls, "I must inform you: several guests have been complaining."

"About what?" Basil snaps, rubbing his head. "The food? Or lack of it thereof? The storm? My previous homicidal rage? The power outage?"

"No, no. Many of them seem to have misplaced their luggage."

"Misplaced their luggage?" Fawlty whispers.

"Yes. I've had five people come up to me, asking about your credibility. Each of them had noticed luggage missing from their rooms. I defended you, naturally, assuring them that I had seen far worse hotel managers in my day…"

"_The robbers_."

"Robbers!" the Major gapes. "In _this_ hotel?"

"Y-yes…" Basil sputters. "Major, don't you remember? We were discussing this earlier! You volunteered to help me keep an eye out for the Terrors of Torquay."

"Oh, yes old chap. I do remember that. I just find it hard to believe that robbers would target a hotel so—so..."

"Small?" Manuel offers, struggling under the weight of the moose head.

"Badly managed?" Polly suggests. Smirking, she drags over a chair and begins to hammer the ornament back into the wall.

"Horrendously staffed," Basil retorts.

"Goddamn slow!" a rather bitter old woman screams, pounding her fists on the front desk. "I've been waiting here for the past ten minutes!"

"Sorry, ma'am," Basil shoves past the Major, darting behind the front desk, "Oh, hello, Mrs. Praline. How can I help you?"

"You can help me by delivering my bags! Erica said you'd help her find them!"

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs. Praline, but—"

"I'll accept no buts, Fawlty! My denture formula's in there! This customer service you're providing is deplorable!" Erica's Aunt blasts past the desk, heading into the office. "I'm sure one of your idiot staff just dumped the parcels in here!"

"Mrs. Praline, you can't just barge in there!" Basil shouts, racing after the scary old bird. "That's private!"

"Oh, Auntie!" Skimpy skirt showing off her long legs, Erica darts across the lobby. En route, she bumps into Manuel, causing the little waiter to trip and drop the moose-head. Polly swings the hammer towards the space where the decoration used to be, accidentally slamming her own hand.

"Ouch, Damnit!" she cries, tottering off the chair. Fortunately, the crumpled waiter is there to break her fall. "Sorry, Manuel."

"Vale, esta bien…"

Ignoring the trouble she has just caused, Erica continues to stride into the office. She pauses for a moment upon entering, large eyes hungrily taking in the scene. The office is decorated with loud pink striped wallpaper, old wood furniture, and a scattering of filing cabinets. Atop one of them sits a large safe.

"Erica, help me find our luggage!" the cranky old woman demands, scanning the room with her beady eyes.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Fawlty!" Erica cries, gently taking her aunt's hand. "You must forgive my Auntie. She's quite mad."

"Yes, I can see that," Basil mutters.

"I won't be spoken about in this manner!" the old bat snarls, plodding away. "I'll be up in the room, Erica, without my denture cleaning solution! You'd better find those bags, Fawlty, or there'll be hell to pay!"

"You must forgive her, Basil." Batting her eyelashes, Erica clings to the hotelier's arm. "She doesn't know what she's saying."

"It's fine," Fawlty snaps, attempting to shake her off. "Excuse me, Miss Praline, but I've work to do…"

"Oh, you're always so busy," she breathes, "So _tense_."

"And becoming more so by the minute." Basil backs away from the forward woman. "I wonder why that is…"

"Oh Mr. Fawlty, you're so funny!" Erica purrs.

"Miss Praline, have you ever seen the longue? I think you'll really love it." On a quest to rid himself of this nuisance, Basil hustles the girl out of the office and into the crowded barroom. "I'll even show you my coin collection."

"Your coin collection?" she gasps, thrilled, "Why, Mr. Fawlty—"

"There it is." He abruptly points at the glass case in the corner. "All British Empire, of course." The corners of Basil's mustache twitch upward; he is rather proud of hobby.

"Oh," she examines the container with mild interest. "Is it valuable?"

"Yes. Would you do me a huge favor?"

"_Anything_!"

"Guard it." Basil positions Erica right in front of the display.

"Guard it? But—"

"Any one of these people could be the robbers, the ones who took your bags," the hotelier says, glancing about the packed room. "They'll be tempted to take this next. But you can prevent that. Please?"

"Okay," she smiles, blankly.

"Thanks so much, dear," Basil says sarcastically. Glad to have ditched this needy guest, the tall, thin man darts out of the longue.

"Mr. Fawlty!" The moment the hotel manager reenters the lobby, Miss Tibbs and Miss Gatsby latch onto his arms. "Oh dear, we've just had the most dreadful fright."

"Did you stumble across mirror perchance?" he mutters, under his breath.

"There is a young lady hanging out of one of the windows!" Miss Tibbs explains.

"We were returning from town," Miss Gatsy informs him, "because the storm was picking up. As we walked down the path, a scream caught our attention. We glanced up to see a weeping woman waving to us. She was crying. She said her husband Michael was on the ground dazed and that she was afraid to leave her room."

"She told us to run and fetch the police, to tell them to get up to Room 23," Miss Tibbs adds, "She said that the phone in her room wasn't working and all the lights had gone out. She sounded so scared, Mr. Fawlty."

"Poor woman," Basil sighs sadly, "That's Helen for you."

"You know her?"

"Oh yes. I let her stay here from time to time, no charge. You see I've known her since childhood. She's a gentle soul, really. But ever since her husband died in a tragic renovating accident, she's never been quite the same. Helen's had trouble keeping a job. Sometimes, as you've seen, she even experiences horrible delusions. But I assure you: they pass. She's not dangerous in the least."

"Oh, Mr. Fawlty, you're a saint!" Miss Tibbs gasps.

"What a charitable thing to do!" Miss Gatsby claps her wrinkled hands together, awed by his abounding selflessness.

"Yes, yes, please make sure to get that information out there," the dishonest hotelier orders them, in a hushed tone, "Wouldn't want anyone to think that the occupants of Room 23 were _really_ in trouble or something…"

"Of course, of course," Miss Tibbs nods.

"We'll make sure to spread around the truth about your endless compassion!" Miss Gatsby guarantees, as the two sweet old ladies hobble away.

"_Excellent_. And what the hell are you two doing, sitting around?" Fawlty glances over at the dazed forms of Manuel and Polly. Having given up the attempt at re-securing the moose-head, the two members of the waiting staff are currently sitting against the wall with the ugly, antlered cranium between them.

"Why don't you ask your girlfriend?" Polly mutters, annoyed. The hotelier ignores this dig.

"Get up!" Basil helps the waitress to her feet and forcibly picks up the unlucky Spaniard. "We're having an emergency staff meeting!" Carrying Manuel under his arm, Fawlty bursts into the kitchen. In an effort to increase the dark room's visibility, Polly somberly begins placing a few lit candles about the cabinets and counters. It gives the room a pious look.

"Incense candles, really Polly?" Basil coughs. "I can't stand the smell!"

"I'm afraid they're the only candles we have left, Mr. Fawlty."

"Oh God, we'll all be needing gas masks soon! So how're things going in here?"

A miserable Terry glances up from a pot of ruined soup.

"Mr. Fawlty!" the cook says, "The power's—"

"Yes, yes, I know the power's gone out. We'll just have to improvise."

"Improvise? How? No electricity means no cooking, roasting, broiling, steaming, or baking. Nothing! We can't even use the fridge for anything! Half the menu's off now. And forget ordering anything, all the local places are either closed or not delivering because of the storm."

"Then we'll just have to make due with what we have." Basil's hazel eyes sparkle with determination. "You lot, listen up. Sybil's gone to pick up her batty friend. Things had better be in order when she gets back. We can't have any more cock ups."

"We?" Polly cries, indignant. "Mr. Fawlty, you're the one having all the cock ups! It's your fault that the basement's flooded! You're the one that forgot to have the tree looked at! You're the one that's knocked a man unconscious and scared away a busload of orphans and nuns! You're the one that's been too busy guarding this hotel from fictional robbers that you've allowed things to descend into utter hell! All that's gone wrong today is a direct result of your tangled web of lies and increasingly manic-depressive behavior!"

A nasty silence descends upon the dim kitchen.

"All done?" Basil asks her, gently.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Polly nods, after some thought, "That felt good. I'm sorry, Mr. Fawlty."

"It's fine. We'll need to have all that in the open, if we hope to make tonight a success." Undeterred, the hotelier claps his hands together. "Alright, so I have a cunning plan. Terry, we've got to fix this dinner."

"Fix dinner?" Terry whispers. "Mr. Fawlty, I don't think that's possible!"

"We have a green salad, don't we?"

"Well, yes…"

"Don't have to cook that, do you?"

"No…"

"And you've already finished cooking the chicken meals, haven't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Fawlty, but they'll be freezing by the time we send them out. And that's only _one_ entrée, the menu we sent out had several choices..."

"So what? Cold chicken never killed anyone. And forget choices. Hobson got it right, choices are for fools. Here at Fawlty Towers you get one option and you better damn well like it. Chicken it is."

"Chicken _could_ go nicely with some of that white wine—"

"Hang on, Terry. Are you forgetting the, um, _problem_ with the wine cellar?" Basil gestures ominously at the basement door.

"Oh dear, Mr. Fawlty, I forgot!"

"The guests will just have to make due with fruit juice, whatever slosh the bar's stocked with, and any flasks of alcohol Sybil's concealed about our room. Let's see. That's the appetizer, the drinks, and the main course right there."

"Juice, a plain salad, and cold chicken?" Terry repeats, skeptically.

"They'll just have to take it or leave it."

"What about dessert then?"

"Fruit salad!" Basil exclaims, jubilant, "I say, I'm quite good at this, aren't I?"

"But Mr. Fawlty." The cook holds up the scarce fruit bowl. "All we have are some bruised apples, a banana, two rather sickly looking strawberries, and a lime."

"Make it work, Terry," Basil snaps, "You're the cook here, not me!" Sighing, Terry begins to slice and dice the meager selection of fruits. Turning around, the manager focuses his attention on Polly. "Okay, Sherman. I need you to gather up all the guests and explain to them the robber situation."

"Robber situation?" she mutters. "Mr. Fawlty, are you still stalking those poor Americans?

"Excuse me, didn't you hear the Major? Five people have complained about missing luggage! Erica Praline's suitcases were taken from her room! A pin was found at the scene!" He flashes the small, green clipping. "It's a crocodile, Polly. _As in the Florida crocodiles._ I mean gators…Seems to implicate our Floridian friends, doesn't it?" Polly crosses her arms, skeptically. "Either way, things just aren't adding up. We need to be cautious."

"Very well, what exactly do you want me to tell the guests?"

"Tell them that we have listened to their concerns about the recent string of robberies. Instruct them to leave all their valuables in our safe in the office. Tell them what they want to hear. Now GO!" The waitress hurries off to complete this assigned task. Basil turns to the beaming Spanish waiter. "Manuel, I need you to scrounge up some spare furniture."

"Que?"

"Uggg. Get furniture!" Irritated, Basil demonstrates by grabbing up a chair. "Si? Numeros chair-os?"

"Umm. Si…"

"Get them and pile them up in front of Room 23." Basil writes the number on a napkin and hands it to Manuel. The Spaniard nods, looking slightly frightened. "So they can't get out. I know that sounds bad, but we can't have them trying to make a dash for it in the middle of dinner. It'd look… well… I just don't want to startle the other guests. Manuel, after you finish that come back down to the kitchen where you'll be helping Terry and I."

"Si!" Manuel grins.

"Better get to it." Basil pats the eager waiter on the back. This action causes a brown, furry object to fall from his white jacket. "Oh God, what the hell is that?" The hotelier is so startled that he nearly leaps up onto the kitchen counter. "Is that…is that a rat?"

"Iz just toy, Meester Fawlty," Manuel explains, picking up the stuffed rat.

"A toy rat?" Basil fumes, snatching the fuzzy item away. "As in a toy rat _for_ your real rat?" Manuel hangs his head in shame. "_Gotcha_! Manuel, I told you to get rid of Basil…or whatever you've named that thing. For the last time, it's not a bloody hamster."

"But man at pet store—"

"—Probably would have sold you a dead parrot, had he the chance. You've been conned, you moron—" Basil angrily snaps the rubbery tail off the rat toy "—That creature you keep as a pet is the reason for the decimation of the population of Europe during the 14th century! So know this. If I find that rat in this hotel—" The hotelier tosses up the dislocated tail, thrusting the now tail-less rat toy into Manuel's hands "—you'll regret ever having laid eyes on that 'filigree Siberian hamster.'"


	9. The Dinner

The crowd in the lobby is growing restless. They are a sea of inconvenienced, irritated travelers, stranded at this small inn by the raging storm outside. They are by no means enthusiastic customers, merely desperate ones. This makes them even less tolerant of the dim lighting, overall lack of service, and lateness of the dinner.

"Are we getting fed at all?"

"My kids are hungry!"

"When's dinner?" a fat man whines, "We're starving out here!"

"This is ridiculous!"

"The service here stinks!"

"Damn Europeans, you people can't even run your hotels properly," snarls one bespectacled Yankee.

"Where's that strange manager guy anyways?"

"You mean the tall man with the mustache?"

"Looks a bit like Hitler? Always running around?"

"That's the one!"

"Shouldn't he be out here, I don't know, _managing_ things maybe? You know, doing his job?"

The mutinous group grows louder and louder as the complaints about the hotel fly.

"Can you people be quiet?" Basil abruptly kicks open the kitchen doors. "Some of us are trying to sleep!" He is greeted with appalled silence. "Just a joke people… just a little humor to lighten the mood," he informs them, aridly. "I am happy to announce that dinner is served. So if you'll all just migrate to the dining room now…"

* * *

The tables have all been pushed together, forming one massive central table in the middle of the dining room. The thick smell of incense hangs heavily in the air: scented candles provide the only light in the dark room.

"Where are the lights, Fawlty?" the Major demands, jovially. "What are you expecting, another Blitz?"

"No, Major," Basil explains, loudly so the other guests can hear, "That's just the mood lighting. We're having one of Fawlty Tower's famous candlelight suppers. Umm… no regular lighting allowed."

"Is that why the _entire_ hotel's gone dark?" a vicar asks, skeptically.

"We're trying to conserve a bit of energy, Father." The clergyman scowls at this incorrect honorific. "It's part of our Earth-friendly policy."

"Oh God," the irritable American growls, "What is this, the Hippie Hotel?"

"More like the Horror Hotel," the psychiatrist next to him whispers, "Did you hear all that screaming earlier? Dreadful."

"Oh dear, I know!" adds a rather stout woman, "Frightening, with those burglars on the loose!"

"I deposited all of my valuables in the hotel safe," Miss Tibbs says, "Mustn't leave that up to chance."

"Yes, but I honestly don't like the looks of that Fawlty character," confesses the vicar, "Seems shifty…sneaky."

"I assure you all, Mr. Fawlty is an upstanding citizen," Miss Gatsby tells them. "Allowing poor, destitute, imbalanced people to stay here. What a saint."

"Imbalanced?" the American gapes. This alarming conversation is cut short by Manuel, who begins sloshing out glasses of water. Polly follows him around the table, distributing bowls of a rather plain, unimaginative salad.

"Excuse me, could I get Wardof Salad instead?" the American asks.

"Ooh we're fresh out of Waldrof, sorry," Polly says, before dashing away. The starving guests inhale the unadorned salad in a discontented silence. Inside the kitchen, Basil watches them through the window in the door. He grins to himself. So far, everything is going according to plan. The safe in the office has been stuffed with valuables deposited by nervous guests. This will hopefully deter the robbers from striking again. Michael and Helen from Room 23 haven't made another appearance: the barricade against their door seems to be holding up nicely. Despite the power outage, potential burglars, and pending litigation, this day is turning out better than most…

And on top of everything, Sybil has yet to return! Basil's wide grin twists into a frown as his eyes dart to the darkened, rain-splattered window. The storm has picked up considerably. Jamming his hands into his pockets, the hotelier can't help but worry about his nagging wife. Basil sighs, remembering their earlier quarrel. He absently decides to prepare a small dinner for them to share upon her return. Might as well do something nice, for a change. Sybil has seemed stressed enough as it is recently, maybe a relaxing meal will appease her somewhat….

* * *

Sybil totters through the parking lot, her tower of permed hair drooping in the rain. She can barely see through the darkness, the tempest has truly reached dangerous heights. Nevertheless, after rescuing Audrey from the flooded piers, Sybil drove around in the storm by herself for a bit. This odyssey was a reckless venture, especially in her case. But the driving definitely cleared her head after those hours spent in the claustrophobic hotel. She feels somewhat better, ready to handle Basil and deal with the challenges the guests hurl at them. Smiling now, Sybil drifts into Fawlty Towers and finds it completely dark.

_He's closed the bloody place_, is her first guess._ After I left, Basil had a nervous breakdown, kicked all the guests out, and is now curled in a ball in the corner of the kitchen._

It wouldn't be the first time…

"Basil?" Sybil squawks, stumbling through the lobby. "Oh dear!" Tripping, she is sent straight into her husband's arms. "Why is it so dark in here?"

"Mood lighting," Fawlty informs her, helping her to her feet. "The guests specifically requested it."

"Oh…okay," she murmurs, glancing at the flickering candles adorning the front desk. "Are you sure this…this is safe?"

"Yes, of course it is!" he snaps. "Candlelight suppers are all the rage over in the Continent. We should have more of them."

"How have you been?" Sybil asks, quietly.

"Since you stormed out and abandoned me? Fine."

"I'm sorry, Bas. I—I…"

"You were annoyed at me, I understand," Basil says, smoothly, "Let's just forget about everything that's happened in the last few hours." He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his forehead. "_Forgetting_…."

"That sounds wonderful," Sybil agrees, "But if you could just explain one thing: why were you chasing Manuel around with that broken champagne bottle? What happened in Room 23?"

"I've forgotten," Basil shrugs. He places his hands on his wife's temples, humming strangely. "_Haven't you_?"

"Yes… Yes I suppose I have now," Sybil giggles at her husband's silliness, in spite of herself, "So things have been running well since I left?"

"There have been no problems," Fawlty fibs, ushering his wife into their office. To her delight, a small table has been set up in the center. It is sparsely decorated with a vase of slightly withered flowers, more of those bloody incense candles, and a moth bitten tablecloth. Still, the gesture is sweet. "Care for some salad?"

"Oh, yes dear! I'm so hungry!" Grabbing a fork, Sybil begins devouring the unappealing assortment of vegetables. Basil gapes at her, in between nibbles of his own food.

"Someone's hungry," he mutters after a while. "Try not to inhale the silverware as well, Syb, that was a gift from my dear late auntie…"

"Oh Basil, just because _you_ eat like a little hamster," she guffaws.

"I do _not_ eat like a hamster! I don't know why you constantly compare my manner of eating to that of a rodent! What are you insinuating, that I'm a rat of some sort?"

"Silly, I'm just teasing you," she snickers. "Don't take everything so seriously!"

"Oh." A tiny smile flickers across Basil's lips. "Very well."

"So, what do we have to drink tonight?" Sybil inquires.

"Ummm…" Basil blinks. "I'd offer you wine but—"

"Oh, no wine for me."

"Thank God," the hotelier mutters under his breath. Sybil doesn't seem to notice this odd comment: she is far too busy staring at Fawlty across the table, her large eyes shining.

"Bas?" Sybil suddenly reaches across the table, grabbing her husband's hands. "Listen, sweetie, we need to talk."

"Oh?" Fawlty raises his eyebrows, thoroughly alarmed. _She's figured it out. She knows that the basement's flooded, the branch's knocked out the power, and the people in Room 23 are scared for their lives, and she's going to carry on for a while as if she hasn't realized. She's building up the suspense: it's all part of the torture. _Basil gapes, amazed by what he imagines to be his wife's devious plans to guilt him into admitting everything. _Well, it won't work this time, Syb. That Health Inspector in '71 couldn't pressure me into confessing, and neither can you!_ "About what?"

"About something quite…quite _serious_."

"Okay, okay!" Unable to stand the insane pressure anymore, Basil throws his hands up in defeat. "You got me—"

"Meester Fawlty!" Manuel bursts into the room, his face flushed, his expression anxious. "Meester Fawlty, come quick!"

"Manuel!" Basil leaps to his feet, feeling unusually pleased by the Spaniard's interruption. "What is it?"

"The guests," the waiter whispers, brown eyes enormous, "They are asking for very strange things."

"Is everything alright?" Sybil asks, bemusedly munching a celery stick.

"Fine, dear, everything's fine!" Basil grins reassuringly at his wife. "Just a few….umm…people are….I'll take care of it, back in a moment." The lanky hotelier drags Manuel into the lobby, out of Sybil's earshot. "What are they asking for?"

"They say to me, 'Where is the Damn-Wine? Where are the Damn-Drinks?' Meester Fawlty, what is Damn-Wine?" Manuel blinks, upset. "I no know where to find these things …"

"Oh Christ…." Basil leads the little waiter into the kitchen, where a rather flustered Polly is scouring the cabinets for drinks.

"They're really starting to grumble out there," Polly explains, locating a dusty jug of grape juice, "Everyone wants to see the beverage selection."

"Didn't you give them water?" Basil demands.

"Yes, tap water. There've been complaints about its taste," the waitress sighs, "'Metallic-bodied with playful hints of manure and salt' was how one wine connoisseur described it. I can't keep stalling. You'll just have to go outside and tell them that there's no wine."

"NO," Basil bellows, "I will do no such thing. If I admit that there's no wine, I'll have to explain _why_. Then that will lead to questions about the power outage and so forth… Do you people _want_ to be a witness to Sybil committing mariticide?" Putting the finishing touches on his fruit salad, Terry seems somewhat interested by that prospect but Polly just shakes her blonde head, glumly. Basil adjusts his conservative tie and jacket, his mouth a stern line. "No. I'll go tell those proles to drink their water, manure and all." On that pleasant note, the hotelier storms out of the kitchen into the packed dining room.

"How is everyone doing tonight?" He claps his hands together, a rather artificial smile creeping across his face. Murmurs of displeasure ripple across the large central table.

"Sir?" the obnoxious American barks, "Can us adults see the wine selection?"

"Adults?" Looking confused, Fawlty glances about. "Where?" This earns him a few grumbles. "Oh you want beverages?"

"Wine, specifically," the American informs him. "Not this pathetic excuse for water… Where'd you people get this stuff, a swamp?"

"We nearly have better water in the Everglades!" Doug Norman jokes, attempting to lighten the tense mood. This earns him a sharp glare from Basil, who still considers the Floridian couple prime suspects in the case of the vanishing luggage.

"When did _you_ get in?" Fawlty demands, icily.

"Just a few minutes ago," Judy smiles.

"Where have you been?" the nosy hotelier demands, before murmuring, "Who've you been _holding up_ this time around?"

"We've just been out to town," Judy explains, slowly. "You know. Shopping…"

"Really?" Basil snaps. "Do you have any proof of that? Receipts? Witness accounts?"

"Whoa," Mr. Norman smiles, awkwardly, "We weren't expecting the Spanish Inquisition here…"

"I'm sure you weren't. You've fooled everyone else so far, haven't you?"

"What—" Judy begins, only to be cut off by the bespectacled American man.

"Hello, can we get back to the topic at hand here? Where's the wine? We want drinks!"

"Okay…so it's wine you people want?" Basil asks, reluctantly.

"YES!" the numerous guests chorus back.

"Nobody here's allergic to grapes or anything?"

"NO!"

"Wine is it—you want wine? You're all sure about that?"

"YES!"

"Anyone up for juice…or soda…something nonalcoholic?"

There are no takers: not even the minors raise their hands. Basil stares at the table of tired faces, unable to find an out. Now he'd be forced to admit that they in fact had no wine do to the fact that the basement of Fawlty Towers had flooded. This would reveal to Sybil that her husband had failed to clean the gutters. Further inquiries would expose the fallen tree branch, the stalking of the Normans, and the traumatized guests in Room 23. It'd be a Watergate of sorts, lie upon lie unraveling as chaos unfurled, dragging Basil into its the depths. His gloomy train of thought is interrupted by a shrill voice.

"Basil, go down to the cellar and get these people some wine." Sybil's tone is hushed but forceful. She is standing before the door to the lobby, her arms folded. Her gray eyes are narrowed suspiciously at her husband. "Do it now."

"Is that the phone I hear? Yes, it is!" Basil lies, inquisitively tilting his head. "I think I'll go get that…"

"You get the wine, I'll get the phone. Honestly, Basil, why must you be so disagreeable about everything?" Face fearful, Fawlty watches his wife saunter out of the room.

"Wine…Of course... Yes… We happen to have one marvelous red…" Basil hustles away for a moment, returning from the kitchen with a plastic bottle filled with dark liquid. "Who wants to try it first?"

"I will," a petite Frenchwoman volunteers, smiling. Fawlty carelessly sloshes some in the lady's glass, accidentally spilling some on her lap. "I think it'll go nicely with the chicken. Try it."

She sips the liquid, cautiously.

"What do you think?" the loud Yankee demands.

"Well…" She gives a slight, nervous giggle. "It's grape juice." The woman frowns, detecting a bitter aftertaste. "_Old_ grape juice."

"You're trying to pass stale grape juice off as wine?" the American explodes. "What kinda place are you running here, Fawlty?"

"It is wine! I assure you," Basil protests, hiding the bottle marked 'Grape Juice' behind his back.

"Where's it from, then?"

"Ummm. It's Genovian….From Genovia."

"Never heard of it."

"It's an island off the coast of…. Europe." Basil scrambles to fabricate some convincing facts about this fictional nation. "They're known for their pears and… poor quality wine."

"Somebody get me a map or something," the American commands, "I've never heard of this damn place."

"I can sing you the national anthem if you like," Basil snaps, defensively. "My mother happened to be Genovian."

The American gets up from the table, lunging at Basil. "Gimme that bottle. I want to see the label."

"Oh, certainly. You can look, if you want to," Basil agrees, sounding defeated. He steps towards the inquisitive American, only to stumble. The guests watch as he pretends to trip over the rug. "Oops!" The hotelier kicks up his gangly legs in the attempt to appear off balance. Winding up his arm, he hurls the incriminating plastic bottle at the rubbish bin in the corner. It misses. Basil throws himself on the ground, rolling over towards the trashcan. With one swift motion he picks up the juice bottle in question and tosses it into the garbage. "Oh dear, clumsy me!"

To ensure that no guests will attempt to retrieve the bottle, Polly hurries over and slops some disgusting remnants of the aborted meals from the kitchen into the trashcan. To make extra certain that the evidence remains untouched, Basil reaches over and drops in an incense candle for good measure. The entire pile of garbage is ignited. Manuel hurries over with a fire extinguisher and puts out the flames as the horrified guests watch.

"So sorry about that." Standing up, Basil brushes himself off casually. The guests stare at the spastic, presumably deranged man in utter disbelief. "Bad leg from the Korea War. Puts me a bit off balance sometimes."

* * *

"Well, I think I handled that pretty well." Wincing, Basil clutches the kitchen counter for support. Manuel, and Polly are bustling around him, scrambling in and out of the kitchen on an endless quest to satisfy the numerous guests. "But damn, all that rolling around on the floor…I think I _did_ snap a something in my leg."

"Oh, _something_ definitely snapped," the pretty waitress mutters, "I don't think we'll get too many complaints after that spectacle." She pauses, before adding, "People will be too frightened to dare…"

"The chicken is ready, Mr. Fawlty," Terry announces, preparing the last plate.

"Good, good." Basil strokes his mustache, thoughtfully. "If we can just get this course out, followed by the fruit salad, we should be in good standing. We'll have cleared a hurdle. Then in the morning, I can call Andre to help out with a late breakfast and lunch. Hopefully by tomorrow night, most of these people will have gone."

"Fled, is more like it," Terry jokes, dryly. Basil ignores the pessimistic cook, continuing to describe his naively hopeful plan.

"Sybil can go visit her mother, I'll have someone in to pump the basement, trim the tree, and fix the power! Fawlty Towers will be back to its normal state of anarchy and confusion in no time!"

"Mr. Fawlty, let's not get ahead ourselves just yet," Polly advises her employer, "First, let's take care of the chicken."

"Yes, yes, of course Polly." Basil grabs a dish and leads the anxious waiting staff into the dining room. He unceremoniously slaps the plate of dry, cold chicken down in front of a portly vicar. Soon, each patron has been served the disappointing main course. The surplus meat is thrown onto a platter and placed at the center of the table. The rude Yankee stares down at his meal in shock. A young, bewildered Scandinavian couple attempt to order something different, only to be completely ignored by the hotelier.

"Excuse me, is there no menu?" the woman asks, cautiously. "I can't eat chicken…"

"A _menu_? I don't know where _you_ people come from, but around here that's not how we do things. A menu? Can you imagine? Now, how does everyone find the chicken?" Basil plants himself at the head of the table, grinning slightly manically.

"Disgusting," the American barks.

"_Delicious_," Erica purrs, licking her lips and staring directly at Basil. The hotelier adjusts his tie, uncomfortably.

"A bit dry," Judy Norman confesses.

"Don't you people have other choices?"

"Yeah, can't we decide to have something different?"

"Does your cook not have taste-buds?"

"This poultry tastes like incense!" grumbles the vicar.

"Incest? This is supposed to be a family-friendly establishment!" A shocked woman with a lazy eye covers her young son's ears. "Who's committed incest?"

"Your parents, by the looks of it," Basil snips, snatching away the central platter of chicken. "Listen people, chicken's for dinner. Take it or leave it."

"We'll leave it," is the shouted consensus.

"Fine. You don't like the chicken?" In a fit of rage, Fawlty hurls the main course across the room. The plate shatters against the wall; the cold, dry chicken hits the ground with a dull thud. "Don't eat it!"

"BASIL!" comes the familiar squawk. The tall, thin man in question jumps, whirling around to face his furious wife. "What on Earth are you doing?"

"They won't eat the chicken!" Basil whines, pointing accusingly at the guests.

"Then give them something else!" Sybil's mountainous hair appears to be growing more frazzled by the minute. "Oh wait, silly me! You don't have anything else, do you?"

"How—how do you know?" Basil stammers. His eyes dart to the unfortunate Manuel, who just happened to be standing nearby. "Did _he _tell you?" He raises his hand to smack the cowering waiter, only to have Sybil storm over and grab him by the arm.

"Do you take me for an imbecile?" With shocking force, she drags her husband into the darkened lobby. "Do you think me incapable of any brain function?" Sybil gestures at the telephone.

"The phones are out…" Basil whispers. "Oh yes…."

"At first, I gave you the benefit of the doubt and assumed…. no, I _hoped_…. that this particular phone was just faulty. I tried the one in the office. I tried the one in our room. Still nothing. So I grabbed a flashlight and glanced outside." Sybil smiles, bitterly. "And I noticed that lovely branched we discussed earlier! Remember, Bas? The one that you assured me had been trimmed? Well, I suppose it no longer needs trimming. The whole bloody thing's been snapped off. It's completely entangled with our wires. _Mood lighting_? Really? Now what do you have to say for yourself?"

"No comment?" Basil tries.

"You've been so busy doing stupid things all week that you've neglected to maintain our business."

"Oh, come on, Syb. You were the one that walked on in the middle of a crisis!"

"That's better than rushing about after your fictional robbers…and fooling around with that—that _Erica_ person… What on earth were you doing with that girl earlier?"

"Her? I just looked for her bags and showed her my coin collection."

"You showed her what? What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Literally, I showed her my coin collection. My prized collection of British Empire coins! What, you don't even care about my hobbies now? Why must you be so suspicious about everything? Can't you just trust me?"

"No, I don't think I can, Basil!" Sybil roars. "_I'm_ suspicious? You hypocrite! And you never do anything I ask of you! Have you even brought the guests their wine?"

"No—" Basil watches in horror as his wife storms into the kitchens. "Wait, Syb! Don't!" He scrambles after her, blocking the wine cellar door, desperately preventing her from entering the basement. "Please, Sybil, let me explain!"

"Get out of my way!" she barks, shoving him into the startled Terry. Manuel and Polly rush in from dining room, where they have just finished setting out plates of the repulsive fruit salad. Together, they watch in horror as their employer descends into the blackness.

_Stomp_. _Stomp. Stomp. SPLASH!_

"_BASIL_!"

"I save you, Mrs. Fawlty!" Manuel cries, darting off into the basement.

"Oh God," Fawlty whispers, "Hide me!" Without thinking, he flees into the dining room.

The guests are waiting, standing together in a mob about the table.

"Hey Fawlty, we need a word with you," the vicar growls.

"Yes, we'd like to discuss our refunds," the stout woman tells him, coolly.

"Now's not a good time!" Basil growls, attempting to elbow his way past the group. They successfully block his way, forcing him into a seat at the head of the table. He glances about at the patrons. They glower back at him: disgusted by the unappetizing dessert they have received.

"I'd just like to say that this dinner has been pathetic and frankly insulting," the bespectacled American sneers, shaking his fist at Fawlty, "You really have the audacity to think that people would put up with such poor food? What kind of heartless bastard takes advantage of stranded travelers like that? Why, this hotel isn't even suitable for vermin!"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Basil retorts, leaping to his feet. Menacingly, the hotelier encroaches on the man's personal space. "I think know a couple of _rats_ staying here."

"Oh my heavens!" Miss Tibbs screams suddenly. She points a gnarled, wavering finger at the Major, who is still seated at the table, enjoying his salad. Everyone turns to observe the source of her revulsion. Several cries of fright rise up from the table. Judy buries her face in her husband's shoulder. Erica Praline flees the room, one hand pressed against her mouth.

"What?" Basil demands, confused, "What, it's just the Major! Yes, he looks a bit like a mummy, but it's no reason to point and scream. Have some courtesy for those about to drop dead." That's when he sees the rat tail hanging form the old soldier's lips, like a string of spaghetti. "Oh."

"Oops-a-daisies!" Major Gowen cackles, holding up the fake-rat tail. "What do we have here?"

"Well, Fawlty," the American roars, "It _does_ look like you have a coupla rats staying here!"


	10. The Fire

Sputtering, Sybil flounders about the thoroughly flooded basement. Legal documents, wedding photographs, and other debris float around her as she struggles through the murky water. She grabs onto of an old filing cabinet for support, merely succeeding in yanking out a drawer. Her face contorting with rage, Sybil watches the papers cascade into the swirling flood.

"Mrs. Fawlty! I save you!" Manuel stomps down the stairs. "I reverberate you!" In his haste to rescue his employer, the chivalrous Spaniard fails to notice the slippery nature of the stairs. With a yelp, he stumbles and proceeds to crash down the staircase. He hits the water with a tremendous splash. Her lips bent into a crooked half-smile, Mrs. Fawlty wades over and helps the dazed waiter to his feet.

"Resuscitate, Manuel." Sybil's voice is eerily calm. "The word is resuscitate."

"Mrs. Fawlty?" Manuel squeaks, as the short woman begins to cackle maniacally. "Iz funny?"

"Oh, very. _Resuscitate_, Manuel. Ha!" Grabbing the waiter by the collar of his white jacket, Sybil proceeds to drag the Spaniard back up the stairs. "Right now, the only one that will be in need of resuscitation is my husband."

* * *

"I say, Fawlty, I don't recall ordering _ratatouille_!" the Major chuckles, picking up and examining the fake rat tail. Basil remains frozen as the dining hall swells with cackles and screams.

"It's not actually real," Basil says, too casually. Expression nonchalant, he bites the tail. "See? Thoroughly artificial! Just like that man's hair."

"Excuse me?" The obnoxious American adjusts his toupee. "How dare you insinuate that I'm wearing a hair piece!"

"My dear fellow," Fawlty says, "I'm meant nothing of the sort! I'm insinuating that the hair piece is wearing _you_."

Basil's attitude does nothing to win him public support.

"The man eats _rat tails_!"

"What kind of horror house are you running here, Fawlty?"

"I don't want my children to be exposed to such monstrous behavior!"

Faced with a horrified and disgusted clientele, the hotelier slumps over the table. His head lands in a plate of limp salad.

"I hate people."

"Mr. Fawlty?" Polly whispers, blue eyes concerned.

"Quick, everybody!" the vicar cries, "The loon's out of it, now's our chance to leave."

"No, wait!" The waitress flings herself at the door, blocking the hordes of guests attempting to flee. "Wait! Let's talk about this for a minute. Everybody just inhale, exhale—"

"I'll exhale a sigh of relief when I'm as far away from here as possible!" the stout woman bellows.

"Just let them check out, Polly," Basil mutters, "I don't want my now-inevitable murder to be a public spectacle."

"Oh dear, Basil," Erica Praline coos, reentering the dining room, "What a terrible accident!"

"Accident," the obnoxious American snorts, "I don't believe in 'em. I think Mr. Fawlty here has one sick sense of humor. I can just picture the advertisement. _Fawlty Towers: Come for the rudeness, stay for the rats!_"

"And robbers!" Judy adds, voice stricken with panic, "My purse is gone!"

"But it was just on the table there," Doug exclaims, "I saw you put it down…"

"A likely story," Basil sneers into the lettuce.

"Excuse me?" the Floridian woman retorts. "What on Earth's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I don't know _Judy_." Fawlty leaps to his feet. "Things around this hotel were running just fine before you and your hubby showed up." Polly grimaces at this lie. "You two arrive. Reports of robberies crop up. Luggage starts disappearing. Suspicious gator pins are found. Call me mad, but I believe that these occurrences are all linked."

"If you're suggesting that _we're_ the Terrors of Torquay," Doug Norman shouts, "you're completely mad!"

"Well, I'm afraid I'm as mad as a hatter, Mr. Norman. Because that's _just_ what I'm suggesting."

"Ooh, Bas." Silence falls over the dining room as the small voice drifts in from the kitchen. Frightened by the sickly sweet words, the gangly hotelier feels a chill rush down his spine. "Are we making suggestions, then?" The kitchen doors blast open. Sybil is standing there. Dripping wet. Her beehive is a collapsed, soggy mess. Her fingers uncurl from Manuel's jacket collar. The unfortunate Spaniard flops to the floor. The guests stare in amazement as Sybil sloshes forward. "I have a suggestion for you."

_Drip. Drip. Drip. _

"Syb, dear?" Fawlty gulps. _Drip._ "Oh, I see you've been in the basement. And you've probably realized about the gutters. And the tree. And… and… I'm sorry?" Basil slaps himself on the wrist. "_Bad Basil_."

"Right, dear." Sybil smiles, eyes blazing. "I suggest you run."

And for the first time in a long time, Basil Fawlty did just as his wife recommended without complaint. The chase that ensued proved long and embarrassing. Tall, lanky Basil stumbles about the dining room table, his huffing, little wife in close pursuit.

"Five gets you ten she catches him," Terry calls, poking his head out of the kitchen. The entertainment-starved guests begin placing bets as to which Fawlty will emerge victorious. Mortified, Polly claps a hand across her eyes. Manuel staggers to his feet, hoping to go comfort the flustered waitress.

Seizing his opportunity, Basil grabs the Spaniard and shoves him into the path of the oncoming Sybil. Mrs. Fawlty, nimble despite her tottering heels, dodges the obstacle. Manuel, however, does not emerge unscathed. He trips right into Miss Tibbs, who in turn is knocked onto the dining room table. The little old lady's fall disturbs the incense candles, some of which roll away and clatter to the ground. Soon, Manuel, Miss Tibbs's hat, and the dull carpet are aflame.

"My heavens!" Miss Gatsby gasps, squinting at her friend. "Miss Tibbs, that is a positively _flamboyant_ hat!"

"Employees _and_ guests on fire." Major Gowen strokes his chin. Struck by a thought, the senile old soldier snaps his fingers. "I do believe this tops that place in Eastbourne!"

"If you'll all just move to the lobby." Polly calmly ushers the panicked guests to safety. "I'm sure you'll find things less… inferno-eque…"

"Don't worry, everybody, I've got this!" Terry rushes from the kitchen, armed with his trusty fire extinguisher. He blasts Miss Tibbs and Manuel, quelling the flames. Sybil receives a face full of spray in the process.

"Basil!" she growls, snatching at his jacket. "_This is all_ _your fault!_"

"I know and I'm sorry, Syb!" Basil slides across the chemical splattered table, barely dodging his furious wife's grasp. He sprints from the dining room. "But I've got them this time! You'll see! You'll all see!"

* * *

"The storm of the bloody century hits Torquay and I end up stuck on the roof," Basil mutters, "Fantastic." He's precariously crouched atop Fawlty Towers itself. Water splashes from the overflowing water-tank, crashing over the already sopping hotelier. Something soft and feathery hits him on the head. Shuddering, Basil slaps it away.

"Forgot to fish those damn dead pigeons out of the water tank…"

"Basil?" Heart thrashing in his chest, the hotelier nearly pitches off the roof. He whirls around, half expecting to find an incensed Sybil.

"Oh, hello Erica." The wind screeches across the roof, threatening to rip away his brown jacket. "What the bloody hell are you doing up here?"

"Looking for some company." She licks her red lips. "It must be fate, meeting you here."

"How'd you figure out I was on the roof?" he demands, icily. "Does Sybil know? Did she put you up to this?"

"No," Erica sighs, "My room's directly beneath. I heard you stomping around up here. I had to come up and give you something."

"What?"

"I found this in the hallway just outside my room." Erica dangles a leather purse in front of Basil's face. "Strange, because it's not mine."

"It might be that mental Floridian woman's purse," Basil gasps, "Have you looked inside?"

"No. Isn't that… unemployable?"

"Unethical? Yes, it's unethical. You know what else's unethical, Erica? Robbery. Robbery is unethical. Now, let's look in this purse." Basil reaches in, retrieving a wallet. "Hmm. Driver's license definitely says Judy Norman. And what's this?" Paling, he produces a small handgun from the depths of the bag.

"Oh my!" Erica gapes at the gleaming weapon. "This is—"

"Wonderful!" Basil laughs. The hotelier throws his hands towards the stormy sky, jubilant over his discovery. "I, Basil Fawlty, have uncovered the robbers! None of those sods believed me, but I was right the whole time!" Thunder roars back its response. "Alright, let's get off this roof before we're electrocuted…"

* * *

Manuel bustles about his room, freshening himself up. There's nothing like a near-incineration and followed by a shower of chemical spray to make a fellow look like an unsuitable waiter. Manuel dons a crisp, new jacket (his closet is brimming with identical replacements) and glances in the mirror. The faint smell of smoke is the only reminder of the accident. Following the fire, Miss Tibbs emerged from the dining room unharmed, with an impressively charred hat atop her hair.

The only one that seemed truly hurt by the incident was Mrs. Fawlty. After watching her husband take off into the rainy night, she stormed up to her room dodging the stares of the bewildered guests. No one's heard from her since. Currently, the hotel patrons are holed up in the lounge. Polly has raided the scarcely stocked bar in an attempt to appease the weary customers. If they could, most of them would leave immediately. However, the storm has gotten too severe for such an exodus. They're here for the night, whether they like it or not.

Sighing, Manuel removes the stuffed, tail-less rat from his discarded jacket and places it in Basil the Rat's large cage (which has been cleverly disguised as a suitcase). The Siberian hamster squeaks as it examines its new toy. Bidding his pet adios, the Spaniard trots out of his room. He descends the stairs and soon finds himself in the dark, deserted lobby. Manuel shivers, feeling the gaze of some unseen observer. He whirls around to face the moose head, leering at him from the floor where he and Polly had left it. Its coal black eyes flash in the candlelight.

"Senor Alce es el Diablo," Manuel mutters, blessing himself as he crosses the room. Suddenly, a shadow bolts from behind the front desk. Manuel raises his fists, preparing to confront the intruder. The figure drifts into the candlelight. Manuel relaxes.

"_Perdon_," he says, sheepishly, "I think you _bandido_." An unexpected fist lashes out to greet the Spaniard. Manuel falls back, hitting his head against the floor.

"Blimey," the shadow chuckles, leering over the dazed waiter, "You thought right."


	11. The Downfall

"Major Gowen?" The old man comes face to face with a very frazzled Polly Sherman in the gloomy second floor corridor. "Have you seen Manuel or Mr. Fawlty?"

"Manuel? Ah, yes, the little Brazilian fellow." The waitress raises her eyebrows at this inaccuracy. "I do believe I last saw him in the lobby."

"But I've just come through the lobby," she says, biting her lip, "I've searched the whole first floor."

"Well, my dear, I poked my head out of the lounge and saw him there about ten minutes ago. He seemed to be busy helping a guest carry something upstairs." The Major strokes his chin, glancing at the ceiling. "Or maybe the guest was busy carrying him upstairs. I can't quite recall." Gowen totters off to his room. "As for Mr. Fawlty, here he comes right now!"

Sure enough, Basil and Erica are striding towards them, down the dim hallway. With a toss of her dripping hair, Erica scampers past them and hurries down the stairs. The hotelier squishes to a stop beside Polly. He is completely drenched, but his expression is ecstatic, even borderline psychotic.

"Why, Mr. Fawlty! You're soaked! Where have you been hiding, the basement?"

"No, the roof." Basil shakes his wet head. "After that little incident with the candles, I needed a breath of fresh air." Humming a merry tune, Fawlty begins to waltz with the bewildered waitress. "Marvelous weather we're having, isn't it?"

"Mr. Fawlty!" she hisses, breaking away from him. "Mr. Fawlty, have you been drinking?"

"Just rainwater, Polly. You think I'm soused?"

"Quite."

"Well, in a sense, I am. Smashed on my own victory!" He holds up the bag, swinging it by the strap. "Do you know what this is?"

"A tacky purse?"

"Quite right. An obscenely tacky purse. Battered fake-leather exterior, cheaply gilded clasps and buttons, uncomfortable straps. No stylish woman would be caught dead with this monstrosity. Apparently, Judy Norman breaks the laws of fashion along with those of the state."

"Oh no!" Polly stares, eyes wide with horror. "Please tell me this isn't—"

"A bag suspiciously containing a concealed firearm?" Basil produces the small gun from the depths of the bag.

"A gun?"

"That's right, Sherman." The weapon is dropped back into the handbag. "Now, tell me… what would a young Floridian woman be doing with a gun sans the appropriate paperwork while visiting relatives in Torquay?"

"I—I don't know." Polly grimaces. "I must admit… it does look rather bad. But we mustn't jump to—"

"Ah, Fawlty. Just the chap I wanted to see!" The doddering Major ambles back down the hallway. Polly stares as Gowen claps Basil on the back, nonchalantly holding out an archaic pistol. Eyes bulging with fear, Fawlty grabs Major by the wrist and points the weapon away from his face.

"I understand that the hotel's under attack from robbers. Just say the world and I'll blast 'em."

"Blast off to bed, you old nutter," Basil snaps.

"Right you are, my boy. I'll _pretend_ to go to bed and then I'll jump back out and blast 'em!" Excited by the prospect, the Major waves the gun about. Basil winces, envisioning the devastating litigations that would result from the elderly resident "blasting" random guests in the hallways.

"Can I have a look at that, sir?" Polly asks, sweetly.

"Of course, my dear." The chuckling Major places the pistol in the waitress's hands. "Just be careful with her. She's been a bit testy ever since I used her in the war."

"The Hundred Years War," the hotelier mutters.

"It's not loaded," Polly concludes, quietly. She hands the pistol back to the elderly military man. "Major, why don't you have a sit down and guard the safe? The guests have stashed their belongings in there. Can't have the robbers making off with that."

"Jolly good! Orders acknowledged." The Major salutes Polly and Basil. With a formal air, the soldier whirls around and marches back into his room.

"The safe's in the _office_, you creaky moron!" Fawlty shouts, irritably. He turns to Polly, shaking his head. "My God, is he just _that_ old or is there something in the water around here?"

* * *

In the dark kitchen, Sybil scrubs the extinguisher residue off her face with a tired sleeve.

"Would you like a towel, Mrs. Fawlty?" Terry asks. Her response is growled and unintelligible.

"I need bobby pins," she mutters, catching a glimpse of her deflated hair in a reflective pot. Without another word to the nervous cook, Sybil stalks into the smoldering dining room. Most of the guests have relocated to the lounge at this time, to avoid the smoke (and the seemingly unstable staff). Mrs. Fawlty makes her way across the lobby. Overhead, thunder grinds in the heavens. The small woman enters the office and is just about to reach for her stash of pins in the desk drawer when she notices something off.

Something _very_ off.

"What's wrong?" her husband demands, racing into the room. A concerned Polly is at his heels. Confused guests begin to crowd about the lobby, listening outside the office. "Are you alright, dear?"

Sybil blinks, hardly aware that she had screamed. With a trembling hand, she points to the safe. Or, rather, she points to the empty space where the safe _had_ been earlier that evening.

"It's gone," she whispers. "They've stolen it."

"Told you…" Catching Sybil's fierce expression, Basil nearly trails off. But the opportunity for gloating is simply too tempting. "I told you so." Polly flinches, half expecting Mrs. Fawlty's glare to cause Basil to spontaneously combust.

"Did something happen?" Judy Norman calls from the lobby.

"'Did something happen?' she asks," Basil repeats smugly.

"Why yes, Mrs. Norman. Something did happen. The hotel safe's gone! And all of your valuables with it!" The mob of guests emits a chorus of horrified gasps and groans. Basil slams the office door on their distress. His expression is an odd muddle of exhilaration and fury.

"We're finished." Sybil covers her face with her hands. Polly ushers the distraught woman into a chair. "Fawlty Towers is finished."

"Don't say that!" the waitress murmurs in a soothing tone. "The guests will understand. This is a crime wave, after all. Maybe we can run some damage control and reimburse the stolen items?"

"But we have no money now," is the hoarsely whispered response. "The profits had been accumulating in that safe for some time."

"Don't you remember, Mrs. Fawlty? On Friday, you mentioned that very fact to Mr. Fawlty and he went and deposited it all at the bank."

Basil makes a horrible retching noise.

"Mr. Fawlty?" Polly asks, realizing her error too late.

"Well, if you _must_ know, Polly…" the hotelier snarls, "No. I did not make a deposit on Friday."

"Basil." Sybil doesn't lift her face to look at her husband. "When's the last time you've taken the money to the bank?"

"Oh, recently."

"What's _recently_?"

"Oh, you know dear… _about a month ago_." Basil speaks so swiftly that the words are nearly incoherent.

"So we've just lost practically a season's worth of revenue," Sybil says, in an oddly bright voice. "Because you couldn't bother to listen to me and make a ten-minute trip to the bank."

"Well, why didn't you do it, then?" Basil sputters, indignantly. "I can't be expected to do all of the work around here! And _no_, blabbing on the phone to that cow Audrey for hours does _not_ count as work!"

"Oh please! You're the overworked one, then? What work _do_ you do, Basil? You procrastinate, you lie, and you cut corners, but you seem incapable of actually listening to me when I tell you to do something!"

"You are over-exaggerating!"

"You didn't have the tree pruned. The power went out. And we're flooded! The reason?" Sybil sputters. "You didn't clear out the leaves."

"Did someone say thieves?" The sword-wielding Major darts through the lobby, into the office, raising a general cry of alarm from the other guests.

"Where in god's name is he getting all of these weapons?" Basil fairly shrieks, cowering away from the absentminded swashbuckler. "My lord, is he keeping some kind of archaic arsenal in his room?"

"Major Gowen, just… just give that to me." Polly tentatively snatches the blade away from the senile old man. "That's it…"

"Can't ever be too careful nowadays," the old man informs them, "Not with criminals milling about."

"Maybe you'd better watch out for the criminals running this hotel!" A roar of fierce approval ripples through the lobby. The speaker is the bespectacled American, his face patchy and red with fury. His accusation ignites a storm of furious speculation regarding the theft.

"What kind of place are they running here?"

"Must've been an inside job."

"I'll be expecting a full reimbursement for my missing hairpiece!"

"Silence, you slow-minded sheep!" The hotelier emerges to face the riotous lobby. "Haven't you realized that the thieves are in this very room?"

"Is that a _confession_?" the vicar mutters. Several other disgruntled patrons murmur in agreement.

"No, you nitwits." Basil grabs a candle off the desk. The flame casts an eerie mask of light and shadows over his scowling face. "Listen up!" Much to the hotelier's delight, the crowd falls into a judgmental silence. In an attempt to heighten the suspense and solemnity of the moment, Fawlty hops up onto the lobby desk to make his dramatic announcement.

"_Basil_!" Sybil hisses, tugging at his pant leg.

"Shut up, honey, I'm in the middle of my accusation," he mutters, before turning back to the skeptical mob. "Guests of Fawlty Towers. Tacky tourists, waylaid wanderers, and senile septuagenarians, I, Basil Fawlty, owner of the humble establishment that you have disgraced with your presence, will now provide evidence that serves to identify a pair of notorious local hotel-bandits. I reveal to you that the Terrors of Torquay are none other than—"

The bell rings. Basil glances downwards at the two stern faced constables standing before the desk.

"My name is Constable Graham, this is Constable Nudge. Are you the owner of this establishment?"

"Why… yes. Yes I am."

"Would you kindly escort us to Room 23."

"Room 23?" Basil pales. "What on earth for? Why would you want to…I, we actually don't even have a Room 23, I'm afraid we're quite full. I'm sorry."

"We happened to be driving by when we heard distressing sounds coming from this hotel," Nudge said, gruffly. "A couple was shouting from one of the upstairs windows. Saying they were blockaded in Room 23."

"Oh, that's just Mr. Fawlty's disturbed lady friend," Miss Gatsby clarifies. "He's a dear to let her stay here, seeing that she's a nutter."

"There're crazy people upstairs? You're keeping some psychotic in the attic, and we're standing around here _wondering_ who stole the safe?" the American roars. "This isn't a hotel, it's an insane asylum!"

"No, no, you've got it all wrong! Michael and Helen aren't crazy…" Judy Norman claps a hand over her mouth, recognizing the names of her relatives. "They're just crazily funny!" Basil slaps his knee. "Aren't they just hilarious? They're regular guests of ours." Sybil frowns at this lie. "Always playing practical jokes like that. Pretending to be insane, that's one of their best bits!"

"Screaming out a window for police assistance doesn't strike me as particularly funny," Graham says.

"The joke's on you, Fawlty!" All eyes turn to the stairs. A haggard looking couple descends into the lobby, hand in hand. The man's head has been bandaged, the woman has clearly been crying. A blank-faced Doug Norman flanks them. "Officers, arrest this mad man for attacking my husband this afternoon."

"I wasn't attacking you! I was just…" Fawlty looks at Polly, desperate for suggestions.

"Mr. Fawlty was just putting together a complimentary… Anniversary Surprise!"

"He destroyed our cake, bashed Michael's head in with a champagne bottle, and then barricaded us in the room with furniture."

"_Surprise_!" Polly and Basil cry, in unison.

"You _were_ surprised, weren't you?" Fawlty adds, warmly. "Think about it! If you can survive that, your relationship can survive anything! Stressful situations always bring married couples closer together!"

Sybil rolls her eyes.

"A church down the road has offered to take us in for the evening," Helen announces, ignoring the unctuous hotelier. "We'll be weathering the storm there. I suggest you all join us. I'd rather sleep feet away from a graveyard than spend the night in this horror hotel! We'll be stopping by the station to file a complaint, once the storm dies down," she adds, nodding at the shocked police officers. Without another word, the traumatized couple flees the hotel, into the now torrential rain.

"We'll be joining them, as soon as we've packed," Doug adds, angrily shaking his fist at Basil, "How dare you treat paying guests like that?"

"Oh, I wouldn't skip out so soon, Dougie boy," Basil gloats, "I'm afraid that I have something that belongs to you."

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Officers, I must inform you that the Terrors of Torquay have struck Fawlty Towers, making off with a safe filled with valuables." He pauses, to heighten the drama. "I will now present evidence that serves to identify the these despicable criminals. _Exhibit A_!" He waves about the gator pin.

"No one can see it if you're going to hold it up so high," Sybil snaps, bitterly.

"Thank you, my nagging nook of nettles." The hotelier stoops down and brandishes the pin in the faces of the guests.

"Oh my God!" gasps a woman wearing a pink pantsuit. "Call the police, it's a tacky broach!"

"It would fit right in with your delightful ensemble!" Basil says, condescendingly, "It's a very distinctive pin. I found it in Miss Erica Praline's room shortly after her bags went missing."

"So?" someone shouts.

"Ugh." Basil rolls his eyes and sighs. "_So_, can somebody tell me where alligators live? What's that? Florida? Right-o! Ten points! Now, who else lives in Florida?"

"Mickey Mouse!" a young boy in a Walt Disney World Resort t-shirt calls out.

"No, you stupid brat!" Fawlty shouts. "The Normans! They're from Florida! This is their pin, found at the scene of a crime!"

"That's ridiculous!" Judy cries. "Neither one of us owns a pin like that!" Her husband leans closer, examining the piece of jewelry.

"Mr. Fawlty," Doug says, icily, "I'd hate to dash your _Thin Man _routine here, but that's no gator you're holding. That there's a crocodile."

"Oh, really, is that right? Tell me, Mr. Norman, what exactly distinguishes the two reptiles?"

"Crocodiles have a narrower snout and their teeth are always visible."

"Well, that's _very_ interesting," the hotel proprietor says, sarcastically. "But fun facts garnered from an episode of _Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom_ aren't—"

"I'm not finished. You're waving about a depiction of Sobek, the ancient Egyptian deification of the crocodile." The easygoing American's voice shifts into a stuffier, more academic drone. "Look, it's even holding a tiny ankh." Doug strokes his chin. "You see, I happen to be something of an Egyptologist, Fawlty. It doesn't take a fan of _Wild Kingdom_ to tell you that there are no alligators in the Nile."

"Graham," Ericson says, turning to his partner. "Wasn't Chief getting bent over an Egyptian bloke recently?"

"Right, the new ambassador. He was one of the victims robbed at the Échouer Suites today. Started making a big diplomatic stink about it." Graham looks up at Fawlty. "Interesting, how Sherlock Holmes here came to possess this pin. Mr. Fawlty, you do have an alibi for this morning, don't you?"

"Alibi?" Basil laughs, in a state of disbelief. "You can't seriously be considering _me_ as a suspect!"

"It's just a question. You don't have to answer if you don't feel up to it."

"I was behind the desk all morning! The only people who can corroborate that are Polly, some senile senior citizens, and a bumbling Barcelonan waiter! But before you judge me based on the unfortunate company I keep—" Polly scowls "—allow me to present one last piece of evidence."

He reaches into his jacket pocket. With a flourish, the hotelier produces the handgun discovered in Judy's bag.

"He's armed!" The guests collectively duck for cover.

"Mr. Fawlty!" Officer Graham barks. "Drop the gun!"

"_That_ little thing's got you in a panic?" the bespectacled American growls, eying the puny firearm. "I bought my kid a bigger gun for his tenth birthday! Only in Europe…"

"It's not mine. I found it in Judy Norman's purse," Basil says, gleefully. "Now, why would a sweet, innocent American tourist have a firearm in her purse? For hunting big game in quaint Torquay?" The Major nods approvingly at the mention of this recreational pastime. "For target practice with the stalactites in Kents Cavern?" Basil's rant seems to be having its intended effect. While the disdain for the hotelier is nearly palpable, the guests have begun to slowly move away from the Normans. "_For robbing local hotels?_"

"What on earth were you doing rooting around my bag?" the American woman yells, her cheeks reddening. "How dare you?"

"I reserve the right to examine suspect luggage in order to ensure the safety of my guests and staff! Now, where's the safe, woman?" Basil stomps his foot, nearly squashing the desk bell. "You people want your valuables back? Ask Bonnie and Clyde!"

"Stop waving that gun about! I need you to calm yourself, Mr. Fawlty!" Ericson orders. "What sort of hotel owner goes through his guest's luggage like that?" He turns towards to Judy. "Still, I have to ask. Mrs. Norman, do you have a British Visitor's Firearm Permit for this weapon?"

"No." There is a collective gasp. Basil smirks. Surprised by the woman's blunt response, the police officers glance at each other.

"Mrs. Norman, I'm afraid you're not in cowboy country anymore," Graham says, sternly. "You need the proper paperwork in order to bring a weapon into the United Kingdom

"I didn't register it because it's not a gun. It's a lighter."

"Preposterous! I'm quite familiar with this sort of thing, I served in Korea after all…" Basil takes a closer look at the gun-shaped item in his hand. How did he not notice its lightness and small size before? It's not just a fake; it's an embarrassingly obvious decoy. He pulls the trigger. A blue jet of flame spurts out of the barrel. A crocodile god and a cheap lighter; that was all it took to reduce his evidence against the Normans to ashes.

The heartbroken wail of defeat and flailing arms are involuntary reactions. Sybil grabs her husband's leg to prevent him from tumbling off the desk or kicking one of the guests in the face. Unfortunately, she is powerless to stop Fawlty from accidentally flicking the trigger a second time. There is a spark. Fire sprouts from Officer Graham's hat, prompting the lobby to descend into a screaming din.

"Oh, not again!" Struggling to keep her usual cool, Polly snatches away the cap and proceeds to stamp out the flames. Sybil slumps against the wall, paralyzed with mortification.

Silence. Everyone watches the towering madman on the desk.

"I…I…I…" Fawlty gapes in horror at his own clumsiness. "Oh look! Henry Kissinger!"

The frantic hotelier is able to leap down and sprint away as the inhabitants of the lobby turn towards the door, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of the bespectacled former Secretary of State.

It wouldn't have been the strangest thing to happen that evening.

* * *

Polly stands in the darkened, empty kitchen, scanning the _Echo_ classifieds by candlelight. Dismally slim pickings. Polly is loyally resolved to stick around as long as possible, but there is no denying that Fawlty Towers is finished, with one of the owners on the run from the law and all. The angry guests were so eager to exact punishment on the unpopular host that some even opted to join the officers for a search of the grounds in the middle of the night during a howling tempest! The meltdown had occurred about twenty minutes ago and they still hadn't found him. Polly presumed, hoped even, that Fawlty had managed to get away.

The waitress freezes, sensing someone standing directly behind her. Before she can scream, a hand is clamped over her mouth.

"You've got to help me, Polly!" Basil whimpers. She elbows him in the stomach and twists out of his grasp. "Oof! Polly, please! Manuel's useless and nowhere to be found. And Sybil…" He trails off. Elaboration is unnecessary.

"Mr. Fawlty, you've absolutely gone off your rocker," Polly says, edging away. "I don't think I _can_ help you."

"I just need to get out of here and let things calm down a bit," Fawlty says, "I've just discovered that my bloody keys are missing. Someone's framing me!"

"I believe you," Polly says, sadly, "But after that performance in the lobby, I don't think anyone else will."

"That's why I need your help! Please, please, please…"

With a dreary sigh, Polly ducks her head into the lobby. All clear. She hurries over to the lounge. Empty. Polly returns and ushers her manic employer into the empty barroom. She then busies herself with prying open a window. Outside, thunder crashes alarmingly. The rainy, twisting wind sweeps into the hotel. Polly shivers. The bitter night may be Basil's only hope…

"_Those bastards_!" Fawlty bellows, quite abruptly. Succumbing to despair, he squats down and begins hopping, like some sort of gangly, mustachioed frog.

"Mr. Fawlty! Stop that! What's wrong?" Polly follows his trembling, outstretched point to a smashed glass case against the wall. "Oh dear, your coins!" The entire collection is gone.

"I am going to find those robbers," Basil says, straightening back up. His eyes glint with fury. "Whoever they are. Nobody makes Basil Fawlty look like a fool and a criminal!"

"Except for Basil Fawlty," Polly murmurs, handing him an oblong blade.

"What's this for?" Fawlty asks. Holding up the knife, he notices alarming specks of red on the metal. "Polly, I may be embarking as a fugitive, but I'm not quite desperate enough to stab anyone… yet."

"It's a palette knife, Mr. Fawlty." Polly can't help but roll her eyes at the ignoramus. "Now, listen up. The police and some of the guests are searching the grounds, so you've got to be quick. Head due south, down the hill. Just straight in that direction for about fifteen minutes, you'll find a large white house. Sneak into the backyard. There'll be a small shack there. Use the knife to jimmy the lock and stay there till the storm dies down. I'll come get you in the morning and we can sort all this out."

Basil stands there, frozen with amazement.

"Mr. Fawlty? I know it's not an ideal plan, I'm sorry, but I honestly can't think of anything else—"

The hotelier plants a kiss on her forehead and wordlessly hops out the window.


	12. The Breakthrough

Despite its auspicious start, Basil's escape expedition quickly runs aground. He lands awkwardly on the mucky, saturated ground, barely avoiding a twisted ankle. In the pouring rain, his brown tweed jacket, elbow-patches and all, is insufficient protection from the unseasonably icy wind. Teeth chattering, Fawlty notices the looming posse of disgruntled customers clustering about him.

"Oh, hello there," he says to them, dismissively. "Just checking for storm damage." He starts to oddly tap the outside wall. "Nothing to see really. Tedious maintenance work." The routine is having no effect on this group. How could he have been so stupid? Polly hadn't helped him; she had led him straight into a trap. Foregoing with the patting, Basil opts to punch his hotel in frustration. "Et tu, Sherman?" He shakes his now aching fist at the window. "You'll never waitress in Torquay again, you silly socialist artist!"

Horrified by the scene below, the waitress backs away from the window.

"It wasn't Polly, Basil." Sybil steps out from the midst of the crowd. Basil staggers against the wall for support. His wife is shivering, but her eyes are far colder than the stormy night. "I overheard you two talking in the kitchen."

"Really, Syb?" he mutters, recovering somewhat. "Working through marriage problems by setting an angry mob on your husband? Get that from one of your pop psychology articles, did you?"

"This is out of control, even for you. You need help, Basil. Officer Graham thinks that it would be best if you went to the hospital for observation tonight. I happen to agree."

"You… you really think _I'm_ the thief?"

"I don't know what to think, Basil."

With that, Sybil stalks away, leaving her husband quavering with fury.

"For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part!" Basil howls over the thunder. "Says nothing in there about involuntary treatment!"

"Looks like the unhinged ringmaster's lost control of his own circus." the bespectacled American chuckles. "Even his wife thinks he's guilty!"

The crowd starts slowly closing in on the cornered hotelier.

"Get away from me!" Basil shouts, pressing himself against the hotel. "Get away from me! I refuse to be manhandled by yobbos!"

"No one's here to manhandle you, Mr. Fawlty," Officer Ericson says, "Calm yourself. We've got an ambulance coming that'll take you to the hospital. There are doctors trained to help people such as yourself, people facing… personal crises."

"I'm not having a breakdown! I'm a victim here, I was just trying to ascertain the identity of the real thieves!"

"Nice try, Agatha Christie, but gun-shaped lighters are not illegal," Graham grins, dangerously. He adjusts his crispy hat. "Tasteless, perhaps, but far from felonious. Setting officers of the law on fire, brutalizing guests, and possessing purloined pins, on the other hand…"

"If inhospitality were illegal, you'd be a criminal mastermind!" Doug Norman roars. "You bastard!"

"You've got the motive!" Ericson notes. "Robbing rival hotels to promote your own shoddy business. Storing ill gotten gains in your safe, then hiding it when you're ready to skip town."

"Tell me then, Dixon of Dock Green, how could I possibly be both Terrors of Torquay? There're two of them!"

"We know," Officer Ericson nods. "Would you be a dear and tell us where your accomplice is?"

"He's in your imagination, that's where he is you stupid plod!"

"A strange show of loyalty, considering he took off on you. Presumably with all your loot in tow, leaving you to take the fall. Might as well snitch on him."

"Who the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"The Spanish waiter you employ," Graham explains. "We've had quite a discussion with your wife, Mr. Fawlty. She says that he disappeared around the same time as the safe."

"You _really_ don't know Manuel," Basil snaps. "The man can barely speak English. He struggles to interpret basic window cleaning instructions. He can't tell a hamster from a bloody rat."

"It doesn't take a genius to steal things."

"But it does take a bad person, something Manuel decidedly is not." Basil claps a hand over his mouth, feeling sickened by this saccharine admission. Was the stress of it all making him sentimental? "Oh bloody hell, never mind!" He pauses, shoulders slumping. "Fine. I surrender. I'll come quietly."

"Sensible of you, Fawlty," Ericson says, nodding. The crowd relaxes somewhat as Basil trudges towards the police officers. Suddenly, the gangly hotelier swings up one of his legs, knocking over Officer Graham with an astonishing crane kick. Laughing maniacally, Basil hops over the fallen policeman and races for freedom.

"You doughy cretins'll never catch me!" he cries to the wind. Basil throws up his arms, sensing the adrenaline gushing through his veins. He feels so _alive_, almost one with the storm-tossed gusts. "Just look at this stride! I was a bloody track champ in secondary school!" His idiotic pursuers are so slow; they might as well be standing still. Basil twists his head to gloat and notices that the group has not, in fact, moved at all. Odd. He smirks. Conceding defeat without a good effort, typical lazy rabble...

"Look up, you blithering idiot!" Officer Ericson screams after the fugitive. Had Basil bothered to heed the officer's sage advice, he would have noticed some very disconcerting activity from both the tree that he neglected to have inspected _and_ the rooftop gutters that he failed to purge. Instead, he continues to sprint, up until the very moment his vision is obscured by a crash of leaves, twigs, and aluminum. Polly and Terry rush to the hotel entrance, just in time to witness a large branch and a downspout conspire to simultaneously smash down on the hotel manager. The startled waitress races out into the rain as policemen start to untangle a stunned Fawlty from the debris. Terry follows the distraught girl, attempting to pull her away from the ruckus.

"Help is on its way, miss," Ericson calls. "Get back, please."

The two hotel employees slowly obey the order. Polly covers her mouth with her hands, visibly shaken by the accident.

"He'll be alright," Terry says, uncertainly.

"Will he?"

"He always is, isn't he? Try not to worry too much. He wouldn't be out here wringing his hands if it were one of us."

Polly is silent.

"What a scene," the Cockney cook mutters, shaking his head. "Would it be rude to head home at such a time? What's the protocol for when your boss loses his mind and gets crushed by a tree?" He sighs. "You want to come, Pol?"

"I'll stick around with Mrs. Fawlty. You should probably get going before the storm worsens, your wife must be worried," Polly says, nodding. "Drive safely!"

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow." He waves before heading over to his car. "That is, if the place isn't shut down by then."

Polly races back inside as the few remaining guests begin to stream from the hotel to watch the fun. The ambulance screeches in front of the building. Paramedics spring on the scene and Basil is quickly strapped to a trolley. Inside the hotel office, a bawling Sybil listens to the sirens as she rifles through desk drawers for her emergency chocolate stash.

"Is it Fawlty causing that ruckus?" Completely out of breath, the Major staggers next to Polly. "I must speak to him immediately."

"I'm afraid he's a bit busy at the moment," Polly says, glumly.

"No! You can't put me in the loony bin! Please!" Basil regains enough consciousness to shout, as he is unceremoniously loaded into the backseat. "You can't do this to me! I am a tax-paying, upstanding citizen! I will not be institutionalized!"

The doors slam and the vehicle keens away into the night.

"I say!" the Major says, brightly. "Where's Fawlty off to, then?"

* * *

"I don't care what the reviews say, staying at Fawlty Towers has been the best decision we've ever made!" The two robbers have returned from watching Basil get carted away. They were barely able to mask their giddiness as the farce unfolded.

"I almost feel bad for the bloke," the smaller Terror says, slipping into the bathroom to dry her hair. "Maybe if he weren't such a horrible bastard."

"Well, if he starts talking, Sinclair will put him out of his misery soon enough. Lord. Our biggest haul yet _and_ a fantastic fall guy. What a goldmine!"

"Don't get ahead of yourself dear," says the smaller Terror, grimly emerging from the bathroom. "The safe is gone."

"What?"

"It's not in the tub anymore."

"How is that possible?"

"Did you leave the door open?"

"Yes!" The admission earns him a smack on the head. "I'm sorry! We were only gone for a few minutes though."

"You bloody git! It was easy enough for you to carry it off by yourself. Someone's come and swiped it out of our room."

"The hotel is empty! Everyone else's gone to the church basement. We passed the vicar checking out on the way up here. He was the last guest, aside from us."

"And if a guest took the thing, we would've seen them lugging it to their car just now. A bulky thing like that, it's not inconspicuous."

"Maybe that Italian idiot knows where it's gone!" The large cupboard in the corner is swung open, revealing a barely conscious Manuel. The waiter has been bound with rope and gagged. "Listen, mate, you'd better tell us where the safe's gone or you'll be _very_ sorry."

"Don't bother with the waiter," says the other thief, shutting the door again. "He barely speaks English. Plus, he gets so clobbered about this place, I'd be surprised if he hasn't sustained permanent brain damage."

"Then what do we do? Who else could have taken it?"

"I have a theory. That harpy, Sybil Fawlty, wasn't outside when the ambulance arrived. Odd, considering it's her husband who got nabbed. I'll bet she came snooping in our room and found the safe. But she hates her husband, right? So she gets a brilliant idea. She keeps mum, steals the safe away while we're out, and lets her crazy husband take the blame. Later on, she'll cash the valuables and take off, free of her horrible marriage, failing hotel business, and substantially richer for her troubles."

"Brilliant!"

"I know! It's what I'd do if I were in her place. That's how I thought of it."

"What's the plan, then?"

"Well, one thing's for sure. Sybil Fawlty has to go. If we're not careful, she'll report us and make off with the goods herself. We've got to get the location of the safe out of her. Then, we eliminate the shrew."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Oh baby, you know it." The Terrors lock lips in a passionate embrace. "Tonight, Fawlty Towers burns to the ground."

* * *

Sybil and Polly are ostensibly crunching numbers in the office by candlelight, which translates to wallowing in dejected silence (understandable, when the dismal nature of the sums is considered). The waitress discreetly plucks the hotel's only master key from a jar (sitting right next to the Major's sword) on the filing cabinet, slipping it into her apron pocket. She can't shake the feeling that the safe might be still in the hotel and she's determined to find it. Polly feels driven by her unwavering determination to solve problems, to save the day. Moreover, clearing Basil's name would make a handy bargaining chip in future pay raise negotiations.

"Polly?"

"Yes, Mrs. Fawlty?" Polly tenses, considering the best way to approach her theory without appearing suspect herself.

"You've seen all the damage," Sybil whispers, popping another sweet into her mouth. "Am I really _that_ nagging?"

"Sorry?"

"Am I that annoying, that irritating that people just can't bare to listen when I tell them to do something. I asked Basil repeatedly to get that tree checked out. He simply did not."

"Mrs. Fawlty, Mr. Fawlty is… an odd man."

"Yes. Yes he is."

"If you don't mind me asking, why'd you marry him?"

"Oh, I don't know. Everyone around me told me not to. But…Basil always seemed so smart, so far ahead of everybody. And Polly, when you're young, you find that oddness, that sort of I-don't-give-a-damn attitude, appealing." The waitress blinks, skeptically. "Or at least _I_ did." Sybil pauses, sadly. "I suppose I _still_ do."

"That's strange."

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Fawlty snaps.

"I wasn't referring to your taste in men!" the waitress lies, "Listen to that. Do you hear…thumping upstairs?"

"No."

The desk bell rings.

"I thought they'd all left," Sybil says, sullenly. "Ah well. You'd better get some sleep, Polly. I'll check out the last guest that Fawlty Towers will ever have."

"Mrs. Fawlty, things will turn out fine in the end," Polly says, patting her employer on the arm. The two women exit the office into the lobby. "Tomorrow will be better."

Leaving Sybil to deal with the shadowy final customer, the waitress brushes past them and bounds up the stairs. She can't help but doubt her own comforting words. Tomorrow would bring nothing but more chaos. There'd be psychiatrists, accusations, criminal trials, flood damage, mental health evaluations, litigations, horrible reviews, and health standard violations. It was time to start looking for work elsewhere.

Polly pauses at the top of the stairs. She was certainly sorry to lose the hard-earned but ultimately decent pay. Not to mention the boarding. But, there was something else bothering her as well. Polly felt silly even thinking it. When they were still alive, her parents never required her to spy on people, disguise herself as a bedridden decoy, and constantly mitigate a variety of insane situations. Still… the thought was impossible to brush away. Fawlty Towers was home. It was family, even. Maybe that was a stretch. Goings on at Fawlty Towers were constantly loud, confusing, out of control, and hilariously disastrous. Everyone around her was raving mad and maddening, but somehow, Polly felt a certain involuntary affection for each and every one of them. Even Basil.

It wasn't just her, either. Manuel viewed the folks at Fawlty Towers as his second family. His horribly dysfunctional, frequently abusive English family, but family nonetheless. Perhaps even the Fawltys themselves, in their own warped way, felt it too.

Or perhaps the lunacy of the place was just rubbing off on Polly. She smiled, shaking her head at her own sentimentality. It wasn't a good time to get gushy. After today's disaster, Fawlty Towers was doomed.

Polly frowns. Speaking of disasters, where had Manuel gotten off to?

* * *

"I hope you'll excuse my slow driving, sir. Can't risk going too fast in this awful storm," says the ambulance driver, amiably. "We'll be at the hospital in no time, though. My name's Gill Terence, by the way."

"I heard it the first time, you stupid, uncouth Yank."

"Sorry, friend. I didn't know you could listen and rant so loudly at the same time. Us stupid, uncouth Yanks are rarely able to multitask so deftly."

"Gill, don't upset the poor nutter," interjects the other paramedic, who is currently hovering over Basil. "My name's T.J. Bedevere, by the by. Now, if you'll just hold still for a moment, Mr. Salty." He holds up a large needle.

"What is that?"

"Just a little medicine to help you get some kip."

"Is sedation _really_ necessary?"

"Sir, you _did_ just leap out of the ambulance at the last traffic light," Bedevere explains. "While still strapped to the backboard, I might add. Impressive, but daft, to say the least."

"Well, what do you expect? I have to get out of here!" Basil says, desperately. "You've got to take me back to my hotel. Fawlty Towers might be in danger!"

"I'm afraid that's unlikely, Mr. Malty, seeing that _you're_ not there," the driver laughs.

"Damn it! For the last time, I'm not one of the Terrors of Torquay!"

"Maybe not, but you're definitely not a paradigm of sanity either," Gill scoffs. "My God, man, you're crazed! We almost hit you when you jumped out the back! You could've been killed!"

"Such a selfish thing to do," Bedevere agrees, nodding. "Imagine! A patient dies when he's run over by the very ambulance sent to transport him to the hospital. Wouldn't be very good publicity for us, I'm afraid."

"Well, Bedevere, I'd risk getting splat under a vehicle _any day_ if it meant that I wouldn't have to listen to another story about your bloody cats."

The paramedic's simpering smile twists into a frown. Basil feels a pinch in the crook of his arm. His vision grows wobbly. Before Fawlty closes his eyes, a single, icy raindrop of a thought ripples through his mind. A mental hospital might actually be comparable, even preferable, to his own damn hotel.

He loses consciousness with a smile upon his lips.

* * *

"Manuel?" Polly had hoped that the waiter's prolonged absence was due to some ridiculous Fawlty-ordered errand or task. She is unable to accept the whole Manuel as a criminal storyline. Basil, perhaps, but Manuel? Never.

However, her faith in the man's character makes his disappearance all the more disturbing, and she finds herself growing more and more concerned as her knocking elicits no response, no familiar 'Que?' She tries the doorknob and finds the room itself unlocked. "Manuel, are you in here?" In the candlelight, the room's cramped appearance is amplified. Polly notices her coworker's birthday umbrella, guitar, Marian statuette, and FC Barcelona scarf. No Manuel, though. Distracted with worry, the girl accidentally kicks into a large suitcase. Much to her surprise, a squeaking ball of fur zooms from the overturned bag and zips out of the bedroom.

"Basil!" Polly hisses, giving chase. "Get back here!" The escaped rat leads her into the hallway, only to disappear under the door of one of the other bedrooms. Cursing under her breath, Polly retrieves the hotel's only master key from her apron. With no guests left in the hotel, there was no point in worrying about the invasion of privacy.

"Basil!" Polly corners and scoops up the rodent, only for it to wriggle away again. "Stop that! It's not play time, it's bed time." The rat circles about the room a few times, before coming to a stop before the oversized cupboard in the corner.

_Thump_.

Polly tenses. She can hear muffled sounds emitting from the closet. Oddly, the cupboard handles have been secured shut with wire.

"Hello?" Polly whispers, knocking on the door. There is a barely audible response. "Don't worry. I'll have you out in a minute!" Polly unwinds the loops of wire and opens the cupboard. The missing waiter tumbles out.

"Manuel!" the art student cries. "Are you alright?"

Much to her relief, his eyes flicker open. Polly removes the handkerchief gagging the waiter. Distraught, he begins to speak in rapid Spanish.

"Sálvate a ti mismo, Polly! Sal de aquí antes de que sea demasiado tarde! Encontrar Mr. y Mrs. Fawlty y vete!"

"It's alright, Manuel." Try as she might, Polly can't budge the knots. "Just give me a minute…"

"No use. Por favor…" Manuel says, weakly. "Save yourself, Polly. Danger."

"No me iré sin ti," she tells him. "I'm not going to leave you behind. Who did this to you?"

"I think she Miss Tibbs, then she hit me." Manuel shakes his throbbing head. "Ay caramaba. She take safe!"

"Miss Tibbs did this to you?" Polly asks, skeptically.

"No. Ella sólo parecía una anciana."

"Que?" Polly finds herself asking.

"She… she just look like old lady."

"Who're you calling an old lady, mate?" a deep voice booms from the doorway. Manuel's eyes widen with panic. Polly quickly stands up to scrutinize the robber. His face is difficult to make out in the scarce light, but she discerns that he is slightly above average in height and very muscular. "I don't recall requesting room service."

"Consider this on the house." Polly snatches a lamp off the nightshade and hurls it at her foe's head. He deftly catches the projectile midair.

"Tut tut. Whatever happened to service with a smile?" The lamp is sent crashing onto Manuel's head, seemingly knocking him out cold. Again.

"Leave him alone!" Polly says, fiercely. "Why don't you just get out of here? You've already got your bloody safe!"

"Actually, we don't," is the somewhat shamefaced reply. The criminal steps over the waiter's unconscious form. "The incompetence of the hotel must be contagious. The safe has been stolen twice, once from the office, and once from this room. The security around here is really a disgrace." Polly backs away from the advancing thief. "And so here we are. What do you say, love? Will you help me find the thing? I promise, I won't throw any more furniture at your friend if you help us out." He chuckles. "Can't even say that with a straight face, sorry. There might be a tip in it for you, though, if you cooperate."

"That all sounds lovely," the maid beams, "But I think I hear the desk bell. I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere." Polly launches onto the bed and bounces towards the doorframe. Prepared for resistance, the Terror sprints after her. He is faster, his stride longer; the petite waitress realistically doesn't count on escaping the room, let alone the hotel.

"Big mistake, love," he says, lunging towards the art student.

"You will not hurt Polly!" Conscious after all, Manuel manages to lash his legs out at the pursuing robber. The criminal crashes to the ground with a curse as Polly escapes into the hallway. She dashes to the stairs, her to-do list flashing in her mind. _Warn Sybil, flee the hotel, avoid being struck by lightning, run to the neighbors to get help, come back and save Manuel, call the hospital to clear Basil's name… _

_All in a day's work for a waitress. _

* * *

Basil stands in the center of the big top, cracking his whip to achieve order. He looks pale and sweaty under the blaring lights; his mustache twitches with anxiety. The spectators in the stands positively howl with laughter as the circus workers assemble around Fawlty.

"Would you all shut up for five bleeding minutes?" he shouts into his megaphone. There is an expectant silence amongst freaks and members of the audience alike. Basil adjusts his top hat. "Now listen up, everyone. There is a lion on the loose in this circus."

The observers applaud and chortle.

"I fail to see the humor here!" Basil stomps the sawdust. "How is a bloody man-eating lion on the prowl at all funny?"

"A lion on the loose?" Terry smiles, continuing to impressively juggle his flaming knives. "How on earth did you manage that, Mr. Fawlty?"

"Why don't _you_ explain what happened, Manuel?" Fawlty barks. Frightened, the clown shields his face with a frying pan. "Seeing it's _entirely_ your fault!" The ringmaster snatches the prop away and clocks Manuel on the head with it.

"I see Basil in cage con el león," he explains, rubbing his aching crown. "I run in to get him. León run out."

"Manuel, you saved Mr. Fawlty?" Miss Tibbs sways on her stilts. "You're a hero!"

"No, no, no, he didn't save me. He saved his blasted filigree Siberian hamster." Basil glares at Manuel. "You nincompoop, I _put_ your rat in the lion's cage to get rid of it!"

The circus folk gasp in horror at this admission.

"Not sporting, old boy," says the Major, his bejeweled fortune-teller turban sparkling in the colorful lights. He crosses his arms, revealing a plethora of mystical rings upon his fingers. "Not sporting at all."

"Mr. Fawlty, you ought to be ashamed," Miss Gatsby scolds, loading herself into a cannon. "That's not any way to treat family."

"We're not a family, and that's _Fantastical_ Mr. Fawlty to you illiterate proles!" Basil cries, gesturing at the big top's overhanging banner. "I didn't pay for that damn sign for nothing! _Fantastical Mr. Fawlty's Flying Circus. _Learn to read."

"But sir!" Terry muses, "That sign says _Flatulent_, not _Fantastical_."

"_What_?" Before Basil can comment on the embarrassing mistype (and the general sign-related failures that seem to plague his life), a fearsome roar sounds through the tent. The circus folk scatter; the Major evaporates in a puff of magical smoke, Miss Tibbs hobbles off on her stilts, and Miss Gatsby launches herself out of the cannon with a loud boom. Terry simply drops the blades and runs for it. Fawlty and Manuel follow suit, dashing out of the tent and into the adjacent funhouse.

"I don't think it followed us," Basil whispers, nervously. "What do you think?"

"I think iz fun!" Manuel declares, gleefully bouncing upon the room's inflatable floor.

"Settle down, you Barcelonan buffoon." Fawlty grabs the clown by his false red nose and drags him into the next room, which sports a large revolving disc for a floor. "If we're not careful, we're going to find ourselves on the menu."

"M-M-Meester Fawlty!" Manuel quavers, backing away from the hotelier.

"Calm down. Frankly, I'd be surprised if the stupid beast isn't caught soon. It's a rather dumb, ugly brute."

"_Ella_ _está aquí_."

"Oh. Good. Naturally, the lion is right behind me." Basil turns to face the snarling animal. "I do hope that it's craving Spanish cuisine tonight."

The lion lunges at the ringmaster, apparently preferring some good, old-fashioned British chow. A slide materializes on one side of the room. Fawlty leaps onto it to escape a brutal mangling. He zooms down the chute, till he is flung screaming into a colorful ball pit. Basil pulls himself out of the kaleidoscopic quagmire.

"Damn lion," he mutters. "Now I'll need to hire a new clown."

"Oh, I wouldn't count on it." Startled, the ringmaster glances about, unable to locate the speaker. "I think she's after you, not Manuel. I'm up here, Mr. Fawlty." He glances up to see Polly smiling from her trapeze. "You're really in for it this time."

"Please, Polly. You've got to help me. I'm about to get mauled by a rampaging lion."

"Oh, I wouldn't say rampaging. Frustrated and hurt, maybe?"

"Oh sure! Take the bloody _lion's_ side!"

"Well, she has reason to be on edge. You've nearly run this circus into the ground, after all."

"That's not _my_ fault!"

"Whose is it, then?"

"The Terrors of Torquay!" Basil snaps his fingers, recalling the name. "I've just remembered! They're responsible for all the trouble."

"Who are they, though?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Maybe if you figured that out, you could get the circus up and running again and the lion would calm down."

"_What_?"

"I said—"

"I heard what you said, Polly. It just makes _absolutely_ no sense. The lion problem and the Terror problem are completely unrelated! I mean, really! I come to you for help and you give me some smug nonsense about animal behaviorism? Garbage, that's what it is!"

"It's dream logic for Christ's sake, just go along with it!" the acrobat snaps, starting to swing. "I suggest you get going. I think I hear growling coming from the ball pit."

"Dear Lord." Fawlty scrambles into a nearby hall of mirrors, finding himself bombarded by the sight of his pallid, nervous visage. The distorted reflections seem to be laughing at him, just as the spectators had. He plugs his ears with his fingers, unsuccessfully attempting to block out the wretched sound. Amidst the din, two laughs seem to ringer clearer than the others.

_"Your mind. It's… _sexy_."_

_"Oh Mr. Fawlty, you're so funny!"_

_"I'll even show you my coin collection."_

_"I found this in the hallway just outside my room. Strange, because it's not mine."_

Basil's train of thought is violently derailed by a fearsome snarl. The ringmaster first notices the well-coiffed (permed?) mane, then the glistening teeth. The lion has found him.

"Get back!" Basil catches a glimpse of the name on the creature's collar. "Get away from me, Sybil!" The lion snap its jaws at the cowering ringmaster. "Please! I've discovered who the Terrors are!"

He looks into the closest mirror. The image of Erica Praline smiles back. It makes sense now. _The clinginess, the gator pin, the coin collection, the gun. Erica had been right there, simpering under his nose the whole time. A snatch of memory: as he was wheeled away by the police, he had twisted his head to see two figures standing by his red Austin 1100, stifling their laughter. Erica and her aunt. The Terrors of Torquay._ Basil glances back to the lion and finds it gone. Polly cartwheels into the funhouse, laughing.

"I told you so!"

"Oh, do stop showing off!" he barks, rolling his eyes. "Just tell me how to catch them, Sherman. How do I get out of here to stop them?"

"Mr. Fawlty." She flashes him a patient smile. "Just check your pocket."

* * *

Sybil has never before been forced to wield her trusty umbrella on a guest. Shifty Irish builders, yes. Basil, of course. But a guest? Never! The hotelier considers Erica Praline to be a suitable exception to the rule. First, the wench flirts mercilessly with Basil all day. Then she comes down to check out in the middle of the night, makes a snippy comment about Sybil's hair, pulls a knife, proclaims herself to be a robber, and demands to know where the safe is. Was this some lovesick ploy to clear Basil's name? Had Erica's brief stay at Fawlty Towers caused her to lose mind? Could the Praline woman actually be a Terror of Torquay? At this point, Sybil couldn't care less. Either way, she has found beating the tar out of her adversary to be wonderfully therapeutic.

"Explain me it to me again," the hotel owner orders, swinging the umbrella. "You pinched the keys from Basil…."

"Yes." Seemingly defenseless, Erica shields her head with her arms. Her knife, dropped during the brawl, was kicked away by Sybil. "Wasn't too hard. I thought I'd distract him with my feminine wiles, but he seemed more interesting in ranting about the guests. You sure picked an interesting one for a husband."

No denying that. "But if you had the keys, why didn't you just unlock the safe? Why carry off the whole thing?"

"Jammed lock. The safe didn't work, just like everything else in this bloody hotel. We decided to pinch the whole thing and break it open later."

"And when you came back to your room this evening, it was gone. Stolen twice in one night. Once by robbers, once from robbers." Sybil can't help but smile at the implausible tale. "What did your Auntie have to say about that?"

"He thinks that some shrill, nagging hotel owner by the name of Sybil Fawlty discovered the safe and decided to keep it for herself to ensure her anti-social husband's arrest."

_He?_ "You're insane."

"Or maybe you're just too sneaky for your own good." Erica draws a gun from her jacket pocket. "Enough games, Sybil. Let's have a nice talk, just us girls, before someone gets hurt."

"I certainly don't know where the safe is."

The old stairwell creaks loudly as someone pounds down it at an alarming pace.

"Mrs. Fawlty!" Polly cries, bursting into the lobby. Erica pounces, grabbing the girl by the arm. The gun is pointed at the terrified waitress's head.

"Let her go!" Sybil commands.

"Put down the umbrella," Erica sneers.

"I think we've found the robbers, Mrs. Fawlty," Polly says, with a sad, sheepish smile. There is more commotion upstairs. Sybil recognizes the sound of someone tumbling down the steps, an all-too common phenomenon at Fawlty Towers. Much to her dismay, a tied-up Manuel lands at the foot of the stairs with a dazed groan. Polly is shoved beside him.

"We've been looking for a lost item, Mrs. Fawlty, and your employees haven't been very helpful." The second Terror stomps down the stairs, grinning. "I suggest that you be a little more cooperative-like."

"No, I suggest that you two get out of here and find a better organized hotel to rob," Sybil growls. "_I am having a very stressful day_, _do not push me_."

"You sound like you need a vacation," Erica says, soothingly. "I'd recommend some hotels, but most of the local ones are absolutely harrowing."

"My husband had theories about the Normans, you know," Sybil says, keeping her voice even. "He had theories about you both as well. He'll tell the police, he'll help identify you two. You'll never get away with this, you ought to just cut your losses and go."

"Nonsense," Erica chuckles. "Fawlty is all about appearances. To him, we are sweet, innocent Miss Praline and her doddering old auntie. He would never suspect us in a million years."

"He's not as stupid as he comes across sometimes… most of the time," Polly assures them. "He has his moments of clarity."

"Believe me, I'm not worried about your Basil one bit. We've got a third colleague following him to the hospital now. If he starts getting too chatty with the doctors, he'll be taken care of."

Sybil's eyes widen.

"Now, back to business. It seems to me that there's a bit of a staffing problem around here," the other Terror taunts, nodding at Manuel and Polly. "We can fix that for you, if you don't cooperate."

"Let them go," the hotelier pleads. "They're waiting staff. They barely know their own names, let alone the location of some hidden safe." Manuel nods enthusiastically. Polly shoots her employer an incredulous look, but says nothing.

"Perhaps. But I'm hoping they'll help jog _your_ memory. If you tell us where the safe is, no one gets hurt."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"Do you have a choice?"

* * *

"Brilliant, Polly! _Pockets_? Honestly, you're as useless as the rest of them!" Irate, Basil reaches into his presumably empty pocket, just to confirm the stupidity of her advice. His fingers close around the handle of the palette knife.

Fawlty's eyes snap open.

Polly and the hall of mirrors have been replaced by the ambulance's cramped interior. Bevedere and Gill are giggling in the front of the vehicle, leaving their patient to discreetly remove the artistic instrument from his pocket. With the knife, he is able to reach the buckle securing the straps holding his arms to the gurney.

_Click._

"_Yes_!" he hisses, partially free.

"Well, well, well!" Bedevere says, returning to Fawlty's side. The hotel manager tenses, praying that the paramedic will not notice the unbuckled strap. "I do believe that Sleeping Beauty is coming to!"

"You haven't been kissing him, have you?" Gill jokes. Basil grimaces.

"I'm not a huge admirer of mustaches, actually."

"Somebody be a chap and give me another shot of that stuff," Basil snaps, nodding at his arm. "I don't need to hear any more of this unprofessionalism."

"As you wish, Mr. Paltry. We've got plenty of medication to spare." With a gesture at the row of identical hypodermics on the shelf behind him, Bevedere leans over to sedate the patient again. Much to his shock, Basil reaches up, grabs the emergency medical technician's wrist with one hand, and snatches away the needle with the other.

"Sweet dreams, old bean!" He jabs entire contents of the syringe into the paramedic's exposed arm. With a gasp, Bevedere sinks to the floor.

"What's going on back there?" Gill shouts. Basil sits up, unbuckling the straps holding his legs to the gurney. He grabs another needle from the ambulance shelf and promptly injects Gill. The driver swats him away. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

"I think I've just outsmarted two insufferable ponces."

"Outsmarted? I'm the one _driving_, you asshole!" the American driver shakes his head, stupefied. "Maybe you want to actually think about what you're doing the next time—" His head slumps over the steering wheel.

"The next time I tranquilize a paramedic operating a moving vehicle? Right. I'll definitely keep this in mind." After fumbling with the man's seatbelt for a moment, Basil panics and opts to simply squeeze himself onto Gill's lap. He glances as headlights flash through the rain-splattered window shield. The ambulance has drifted into the wrong lane.

Basil twists the steering wheel, swerving off the road and into a ditch. When they come to a complete stop, Fawlty tumbles out the driver's door, abandoning the mired vehicle and its two unconscious occupants. He scrambles up the embankment, jacket fluttering in the strong wind. The hotelier emerges onto the slick, deserted main road.

Woozy from the drugs and the scarcely avoided crash, Basil can't help but smile at the insanity of it all. He begins a flailing, faltering sprint back to the one place capable of producing such craziness. _Home_. As he runs, his mad laughter seems to rise above the thunder.

* * *

"Thank you both so much for your wonderful service!" Erica smiles as she exits the basement. "You've really made my stay quite enjoyable."

"Don't mention it," Polly mutters. She and Manuel have been tied to the basement's supporting beams. The freezing water in the cellar is currently waist deep and rising quickly as the storm strengthens.

"Oh blast! I nearly forgot!" The robber turns about and splashes the contents of a canister into the swirling water. "There you are."

"What are you doing?" Polly asks. "What is that?"

"It's your tip! Try not to let it burn a hole in your pocket." Erica smirks. "As an artist, I'd have thought you'd recognize the smell of paint thinner. Lord knows copious amounts of it and a few matches would improve most of your work."

The art student bristles but says nothing.

"Que?" Manuel asks, nervously. "Polly, who is Saint Dinner?"

"No, no, Manuel. Paint thinner. They're going to set the place on fire. _Fuego_, Manuel."

"No." The waiter recalls his own incendiary fire drill experience with horror. He begins to plea with the robber. "La dejó ir! Por favor!"

"There's no reason for anyone to get hurt, really," Polly tells the burglar. "By the time we get out of here, you two will be long gone. Everybody wins!"

"That's a lovely sentiment, dear," the robber says. "But I'm afraid that there really must be some sort of idiot virus going around this place. We've botched a few things; I'll admit it. Leaving any witnesses would make for a trail. Don't want that, do we? And, I must confess, I'm a bit of an arson enthusiast myself."

The door slams, leaving the waiting staff in near total darkness. Try as she might, Polly can come up with no clever solution to the crisis.

"I suppose there's no getting out of this," she concludes, struggling to keep her voice calm. "I'm sorry, Manuel."

"No. Lo siento, Polly. I am no help."

"Don't say that."

"Iz true."

"Manuel, you're the best person in this whole bloody place. It's been lovely working with you."

"Polly." The waiter offers his coworker a sad smile. "You are always very nice person. Gracias."

"Goodbye."

"Adiós."

Polly can only contemplate her situation in teary silence as Manuel begins to recite the Rosary in Spanish.

"This. Is. _Typical_!" The debris partially plugging the leaky window is kicked away, replaced by a barely visible but familiar mustachioed scowl. Basil Fawlty examines the flooded basement with great disdain. "I find you idiots throwing some sort of bizarrely weepy pool party in the basement while there's work to be done?"

"Meester Fawlty!" Manuel gasps, overjoyed to see the irate manager. Basil seems oblivious to his workers' dangerous predicament. "He save us, Polly!"

"Mr. Fawlty?" she asks, cautiously optimistic. "Have you brought the police?"

"Why on earth would I do that? I've only just escaped them." Polly hangs her head in exasperation. "It may come as a shock to you, but I've realized who the real criminals are."

"Mr. Fawlty—"

"One moment, Polly. I've worked the whole thing out in my head."

"But—"

"Shut up, Sherman! This is important," he snarls. "Erica Praline and her shriveled old aunt are the real Terrors! Can you believe it? Seemed perfectly upper class to me. Of course, she was rather forward towards at times." Basil pauses, awkwardly. "I mean, Erica, not the aunt."

"I certainly hope so," Polly mutters.

"So, that's the story for you." The hotelier beams at the brilliance of his own deduction. His various run-ins with tree branches, gutters, and sedatives have rendered him somewhat loopy. "Now get upstairs and let me in, dimwits! We've evidence to collect!"

"Mr. Fawlty, we're way ahead of you. The robbers have already attacked," Polly explains. "They trapped us down here and took Mrs. Fawlty upstairs to find the safe for them. Somehow, they managed to lose it. When they've found it, they're going to set the whole place on fire."

"_What_?" Basil pales considerably.

"I said, they've already struck, you're going to have to—"

"Right, right, I'm not deaf, just a bit taken aback. I'm having an awful day, don't rush me."

"Mr. Fawlty, go to one of the neighbors and get help! This is too serious for us to handle."

"Two things, Polly," Basil says, sternly. "One: we are not on speaking terms with any of the neighbors. Really. I show up at one of their front stoops with a sob story about a robbery, do you know what they'll do? They'll laugh at me!"

"I do believe you're projecting," Polly grumbles.

"Two: Fawlty Towers can handle anything. Not well, mind you. Not professionally. Not smoothly. Not tastefully. Not discreetly. Not politely. Not beautifully." Basil frowns, pressing his hand to his sore head. "Dear God, I do believe I have a concussion. Where was I going with that, Polly?"

"'Fawlty Towers can handle anything.'"

"That's the spirit! We can take care of these blasted robbers."

"Olé!" Manuel cheers, inspired by Basil's confident delivery, despite the language barrier.

"That's it?" Polly is substantially less impressed. "That's your damn speech?"

"Manuel liked it," Basil says, miffed by her criticism.

"Si!" the waiter beams.

"He didn't understand half of it. 'We can handle it?' You must be joking! Mr. Fawlty, this isn't some mealtime mix up with a snobby guest! We are stuck in the midst of a very dangerous hostage situation. We are most certainly _not_ able to handle it."

"Well, that's where I come in." The hotelier attempts to worm head first through the small window.

"You're not going to fit, you're too big."

"Enlighten me, Polly, do I pay you to make unkind comments about my weight?" Basil manages to get a quarter of his torso and one arm into the basement before he becomes hopelessly stuck. Wriggle as he might, he can no longer advance or retreat. The water pouring in around him does nothing to improve his mood.

"The first person to snicker gets sacked on the spot."

"Shh, Mr. Fawlty!" The waitress tenses, hearing footsteps above. The basement door swings open. Feeling a bit like the mounted moose head, Fawlty attempts to escape scrutiny by shielding his face with his free hand.

"Shut up down there!" Erica Praline saunters down a few steps, glaring at Polly. Fawlty holds his breath; the robber doesn't seem to notice him. "This is a hotel for Christ's sake, can't we have quiet for a few minutes?"

"Sorry!" The art student grins, eager to appease the criminal. "Won't happen again!"

"Si!" Manuel adds, brightly.

Chilled by the freezing downpour engulfing half of his body, Basil lets out an enormous sneeze. Polly and Manuel cover with fits of exaggerated sneezing and coughing.

"Aw. Catching colds, are we?" Erica giggles. "Don't worry. Fawlty Towers is about to get pretty toasty. Once this dame cracks, we're lighting the place up. Water or fire, pick your ending. Either way, you'll want to be saving your breath." Cackling, she exits the basement, slamming the door on her way out.

"What sort of ads have you been putting in the _Echo_?" Polly asks. "'Psychopaths stay for free?'"

"The dregs we attract here," Basil agrees, shaking his head. "Amazing."

"I'll say."

"And I _still_ prefer her to that deaf old bat, Mrs. Richards." Fawlty winces, nearly dislocating his shoulder as he wrenches himself out of the window. Without another glance into the basement, he takes off running across the yard.

"Mr. Fawlty?" Manuel's grin fades. "Where he go?"

"Knowing him?" Polly mutters. "Probably out with the laundry."


	13. The Family

Rain drums impatiently on the car roof. Basil inspects his hastily acquired arsenal from the driver's seat. The frazzled hotelier has spent the last minute or so rushing about the storm, attempting to arm himself in preparation for the looming clash with the robbers. So far, his weapons include a downed tree branch, the garden gnome, and his (somewhat addled) mind.

No matter! Perhaps bringing a garden gnome to a gunfight meant going against conventional wisdom, but wasn't it the metaphorical garden gnomes of life that made Britain great? Had citizens sat on their arses waiting for backup at Dunkirk? Of course not! They sailed their garden gnome boats across the Channel and rescued 338,226 men! It was time to stop hesitating. It was time to forcibly check some sodding robbers out of Fawlty Towers.

Rallied by his own rambling, internal pep talk, Fawlty punches the keys into the ignition. Nothing happens.

_Super_. Basil glares at the lawn decoration in the passenger seat.

"What the hell are _you_ smiling at?"

At least the damn thing didn't respond with a tentative, "Que?"

The hotelier begins to punch the dashboard and steering wheel, as if physical violence will somehow awaken the car.

"Come on, you stupid blighter! Just one more time, I promise! One more bloody time, you bucket of rusting pus! For Christ's sake—" Basil twists the keys again and the engine springs to life. Calming down, he takes a deep breath and absurdly adjusts his rumpled tie in the rearview mirror. "I'd hate to even mention it, considering your country of origin," he tells the (presumably Germanic) ceramic passenger, "But if it's war they want, then it's a war they've got."

* * *

"Enough dillydallying. Tell us where the safe is right now, Sybil." The frightened hotelier has been tied to a chair in her office, but appears otherwise unscathed. The same cannot be said for her formerly meticulously permed tower of hair, which has been reduced to a drooping mess. The Terrors have been hovering over Sybil, demanding the safe's location for some time now. "Or we head to the basement and take care of blondie and the Brazilian this instant."

"It's on the roof."

It's a frantic lie, of course. Not a particularly good one, either. Sybil foresees it unraveling upon inspection, just like one of Basil's implausible this point, the hotelier is simply trying to prevent, or at least postpone, the robbers from harming Polly and Manuel. Sybil struggles to keep calm. She now understands why her husband is reduced to nervous wreck on a near daily basis. Lying is terrifying work.

"If you're not telling the truth, I swear—"

"No, no. It's up there. Really. Please. Go check."

_ Maybe the wait staff will find some way to escape, in the meantime. Maybe both Terrors will go up to search and fall off the roof. Maybe someone, anyone will come…_

The incessant pounding at the door is forceful enough to startle even the ruthless Terrors of Torquay.

"That would be Officer Graham and his partner," Sybil smirks at the robbers, attempting to appear confident. "He told me they'd be back to check on the hotel later this evening. You'd better be off—"

"Dear, you're as bad a liar as you are a decorator," Erica laughs. "We've been here the whole time, flies on the tacky wallpaper. The guests are gone. The police are gone. Your husband is probably in a straight jacket by now. Nobody's coming to save you."

"Then who's at the door?" Sybil smiles. As if on cue, keys jingle in the lock and the front door creaks open.

_Keys? Could it be Basil? _

"Hello? Anybody home?"

_That's definitely too grating for his voice. Which is probably fortunate, considering Basil's typically disastrous handling of… well, everything. Life in general, really. _

"Run!" Sybil screams at the unseen figure in the lobby. "Run and get help! The Terrors of Torquay are here!"

"Oh my God!" Barging into the office, the newcomer reveals himself to be bland, bespectacled, and wearing a hairpiece. Sybil recognizes him as the angry guest of American origin. The disbelieving Yank wipes the droplets from his glasses. "I just came back because I thought I left my scarf in the lounge… What the hell is going on here?"

Before Sybil can exhort the man to flee, a thought punctures her excitement.

"How'd you get keys to the door?"

The male Terror descends into hysterics at this.

"I gave them to him," Erica smiles. "I borrowed your lovely husband's set while we were snuggling upstairs."

Sybil suppresses a smile. _Basil snuggling? A hilarious concept, in and of itself. _

"Good Lord, Donald. Forgot your scarf?" The ex-Aunt doubles over. "You sound like a complete ponce."

"Just keeping in character," the robber named Donald Sinclair takes a small bow, his accent slipping.

"You're one of them." Sybil wilts. "You're a Terror too."

"Gosh, you're _right_!" the third robber chuckles. "How'd a smart girl like you end up running a place like this?" He turns to his colleagues. "May I speak to you both outside?"

Slamming the office door behind them, the two other Terrors follow their leader through the lobby and into the dining room.

"Did you take care of Fawlty?" Erica asks. "Is that why you're back so soon?"

"Fawlty is the reason I'm back." The bespectacled American's accent is now decidedly British. "But I haven't taken care of him. Yet."

"What happened? Too much security at the hospital?"

"The bastard never even got to the hospital. I waited in the emergency room lobby. His ambulance never showed up. I overheard some nurses worrying over some missing paramedics who were last heard from 'transporting the psycho hotel owner.' Driving back, I found the ambulance. It's stuck in the mud on the side of the main road with two unconscious blokes inside. No sign of good old Basil."

"So Fawlty could be anywhere by now?"

"If he were smart, yes. He's not as intelligent as he thinks, though. I have a feeling he'll be back here." The other criminals appear stressed by this prospect. "Don't worry. He's a fugitive now. He won't be bringing any police backup. If he comes back at all, the arrogant sod will come back alone." Sinclair shakes his head at such haughtiness. "We'll have to hurry up, though. Once the police get wind of his escape, they'll be back here too. Which leads to my question, has the bird sung yet?"

"She swears that the safe's on the roof," Erica shrugs. "I suppose it's possible."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Sinclair grins. "I'll head up and check if she's telling the truth."

"I'll go guard our lovely host," Erica adds, exiting the dining room.

"And I'll keep an eye out the window for the gangly git," the fake Aunt volunteers.

"Actually, mate, I want you to go shoot the waiter downstairs," the former guest orders, coldly smiling. "You know. The Portuguese fellow."

"Worried about having too many hostages?"

"No. That git kept me waiting for thirty minutes during lunch today. When he finally stumbled out, he gave me slightly off prawns instead of a Waldorf Salad. I swear to God, I've been in _jails_ with more competent service and better food."

Leaving his homicidal compatriot to improve staff efficiency at Fawlty Towers, Sinclair darts through the lobby and up the staircase. All of the other gigs had been so easy in comparison. Check in, relax, sample some cheese (in the case of the cheese shop), and then steal everything in sight! Sinclair was all for accepting personal responsibility for his own failures, but he couldn't help but suspect that the hotel itself was cursed. The place was practically a madhouse, producing, attracting, and enhancing spectacular disasters. The unluckiness had rubbed off; this current job was badly bungled, but salvageable. Sinclair knew he could handle it. _Find safe, eliminate witnesses, burn hotel. Straightforward business. _

The Terror scales the hotel's second staircase, finding himself standing before the door to the rooftop. Unlocking it, he steps outside into the bitterly cold, wet night. Cautious of the howling gale, Sinclair moves slowly across the roof. He finds a water tank and not much else. No sign of a safe. He shakes his head. The Fawlty lady was just stalling.

A car horn's relentless honking interrupts Sinclair's thoughts. He tentatively moves to the edge of the rooftop, just in time to witness a metallic flash of red screech up the front steps. Then comes the inevitable, massive tremor, which shakes the building and nearly sends the robber stumbling into space. All this as a horrible crashing noise booms somewhere below.

"What the hell is _with_ this place?"

* * *

A thoroughly thrashed license plate with the registration number WLG 142E clatters to the lobby floor. The red Austin 1100 Countryman Estate sits in the middle of the room, its headlights flickering beneath the rubble. The front door and entry area of the hotel were severely damaged by car's impact, while the walls of the lobby itself remained relatively untouched. There is no motion inside the battered car until the driver's door falls off its hinges. Then, gnome and tree branch tucked under each arm, Basil emerges cheerfully from the wreckage.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry! I do hope that didn't alarm anyone!" he calls, cheerily. "I must've missed the 'Do Not Disturb, Robbery in Progress' sign on the door!"

A single gunshot rings through the night. Eyes widening, Basil sprints off to find the source of the sound.

* * *

Polly's nerves cannot seem to catch a break. A moment ago, "Aunt Praline" had been sauntering down the steps, boasting about his orders to dispatch Manuel. Before the wait staff could even begin to protest, a huge jolt had nearly sent the man tumbling down the steps into the deep water. As he clung to the railing to avoid falling, the robber had inadvertently squeezed the trigger, shooting off the gun.

"Bloody hell." The thief frowns. "What's going on upstairs?"

"You should check it out!" Polly advises, hoping to buy them some time. Manuel is practically in a dead faint; held up only by the ropes securing him to the basement pillar. "Might be serious."

"Nice try." Smiling cruelly, he re-aims the gun. The waiter manages to nod sorrowfully at the distraught Polly. "No matter. Back to work."

"Come now, you're on vacation! Relax and try out Fawlty Towers's brand new basement swimming pool!" cackles a voice from the top of the stairs. Much to Polly's shock, a pudgy bearded figurine crashes down on the criminal's head.

"Every pool session comes with a complimentary garden gnome!" Dazed the robber slips into the water. Basil leaps over him and splashes towards Polly.

"Mr. Fawlty, you save us!" Manuel cries, jubilant. "Me has salvado! You save us!"

"Are you hurt, Sherman?"

"No. Thank you." Using the palette knife, Fawlty frees the art student.

"Manuel? Are you all right over there?"

"Si."

"There's only one Terror left now." The hotelier flounders towards the waiter, untying him before he is entirely submerged. "We can take her, if we use the element of surprise—"

A scream from upstairs pierces the basement.

"Syb!" Shouting, Basil proceeds to scramble over to the stairs. As usual, Manuel trails the panicking hotelier. "I'm coming, Syb!"

"Element of surprise, then?" Polly mutters, following them up the steps into the kitchen. "Hold on, you two!" The sensible maid grabs Basil and Manuel by their jackets, preventing them from sprinting straight into the lobby. "We can't just rush out there without preparing!"

"Sorry, Polly, but unless you've got some 'Robbery in Progress Emergency Kit' stashed somewhere around here, there's not much preparing we can do," Fawlty says, icily. "Where's Sybil?"

"In the office, I think!" Polly says, "But Mr. Fawlty, rushing out there with some half-baked scheme—"

"Polly, Fawlty Towers specializes in all things half-baked. If anybody's going to pull off a half-baked scheme, it's us. We're bloody experts."

"You're concussed, Mr. Fawlty!" Polly whisper-yells. "You're out of your mind, even more so than usual, and you're just going to get us all killed!"

"I'm the boss and I want to get out of this creepy kitchen right now." In his somewhat disoriented state, Basil is put out by the room's spooky vibe, amplified by flickering incense candles and Fawlty Towers's resident stray cat relaxing on the counter. "We're going to go take on those robbers."

"We'd be better off going and getting some help!"

"Why don't you show some backbone? Be brave, you cloth-eared bint?"

"Hello, there!" interrupts a shadowy figure in the corner of the kitchen. "May I interject?"

Basil shrieks and nearly leaps into the irritated waitress's arms.

"Papers, Fawlty?" It's the Major, reporting for duty at the most inconvenient time, as is his custom.

"Not yet—_papers_?" Basil whisper-roars. "Major, it's three in the bloody morning! The only papers you need right now are the forms for a bleeding nursing home, you senile fool!"

"Major Gowen, we're being robbed right now," the waitress informs the old man. "The Torquay Terrors are here right now. Mrs. Fawlty is with them."

"Ah, booking them a room, is she now?"

Basil opens his mouth, his expression positively venomous. Polly interrupts him before he can launch an epic rant at the elderly soldier.

"Do you still have your gun, Major? We could really use one right now. The robbers are armed."

"Old Marge never leaves my side!" Major produces the archaic pistol from his jacket pocket and hands it to Basil. The Fawlty Towers crew lets out a quiet but enthusiastic cheer. "Just remember, it's unloaded. And all my ammunition is upstairs." A despondent Fawlty has to be supported by Manuel and Polly, lest he collapse to the floor. "This is a hotel, after all. Can't accidentally blast any of the guests, as you said."

"It will come in handy for bluffing nonetheless," the maid suggests, optimistically. "Major, why don't you head out the backdoor? Go and get help from one of the neighbors." Having provided her insight, Polly begins to scour the kitchen for potential weapons to use against the robbers. All she can find is the backup fire extinguisher. The entire cutlery is too dull to even consider utilizing, but Manuel adopts a frying pan as his weapon of choice.

"Right then." Pleased with his role in the conflict, the Major totters towards the backdoor. "Fawlty, before I go, there is something that I've been meaning to mention." He claps the hotelier on the back. "Don't worry, the hotel's safe—"

"No, Major!" the tense Basil blurts out. "The hotel is decidedly _unsafe_ at the moment."

"No, I must tell you… the hotel's safe—"

"It's not."

"_But it is_!"

"Christ. Major, I can't let you go out like this. Try to become less confused, before I grow gray and your remains mummify."

"But the safe, Fawlty! I saw a lady about my age lugging it up the steps!Imagine, making a woman guard the thing." The Major shakes his head. "It's an outrage. It's a scandal."

"_What_?"

"Making an older woman guard the hotel safe!"

"You saw…" Basil smacks a hand to his forehead. "Was Erica Praline's aunt the one you saw carrying the safe?"

"That's her! I figured that the missing safe situation was your idea of flushing out the real robbers and I just hated to think of criminals descending upon a defenseless old woman. So I decided to drag the safe into my room for safekeeping. I didn't have much trouble moving it. It's a rather cheaply made thing, isn't it?"

"My God." Fawlty claps a hand across his eyes.

"What did you think I was doing up in my room all night? I _told_ you I was guarding the safe!" Gowen chuckles, bemusedly. "Well, I'd better bug out."

"Thank you for your services, Major." In a sarcastic but fond gesture, Basil salutes the military man as he exits the hotel. "Be careful… you drunken loon." Basil turns to his two employees. "Well, now we know where the safe is. Shall we storm the office, then?"

Before anyone can respond, the basement door slams open, revealing the furious, soaked robber.

"Baby, get in here!" he shouts to his accomplice. The Aunt grabs Polly, to use as a shield. "They've all gotten out of the basement!"

"Drop her!" Basil clumsily swings the tree branch at the former Auntie Praline, succeeding only in swiping Polly.

"Thanks, Mr. Fawlty!" the waitress exclaims, irritably. The arboreal attack has left several leaves tangled in her hair.

"You lot are pathetic!" the Aunt howls with laughter. Manuel is able to capitalize on his distraction by slamming him with the frying pan and pulling the waitress away.

"¡Aléjate de ella." Manuel stretches out his arms to better shield the art student. "You will not hurt Polly."

"Who's going to stop me? You?"

Manuel raises his fists. "Si, Señor."

The chortling robber belts Manuel in the stomach. Prepared, the Spaniard recovers from the strike (if anything, his stay in England has taught him how to take a hit) and returns with an impressive roundhouse.

"Go help Sybil!" Basil orders, helping Polly to her feet. The waitress wavers, hesitant to leave Fawlty and Manuel in the midst of the conflict. "_Now_!" The art student bolts from the kitchen room, clutching the extra fire extinguisher.

"Dear God," she mutters, upon nearly running into the totaled car in the middle of the lobby. "_This_ from the man reluctant to loan me money for a car?"

"What the bloody hell's going on now?" Erica calls, rushing out to the front desk. Polly crouches behind the car for cover. "Honey, is that you? Have you got Fawlty?" No reply. The thief tenses. "Show yourself! Who's out there?"

"Just housekeeping!" Making certain to stay low, the waitress rolls the extinguisher to the side of the vehicle. The robber fires her gun at the sudden motion. _Direct hit. _Polly swiftly tumbles away as the punctured canister explodes. The already dusty lobby explodes into a confusing swirl of white fire extinguisher power.

"Oh my God!" Erica shrieks. Holding her breath and squinting her stinging blue eyes, Polly charges. She is familiar enough with the layout of the lobby to hurry around the front desk without being able to see clearly. The art student slaps away Erica's gun and shoves the confused robber away, before heading into the office. There, she discovers a stunned Sybil.

"What's happening, Polly?" Alarmed to say the least, Sybil eyes the white smokescreen shrouding the lobby.

"Well, Mr. Fawlty's returned. He and Manuel are fighting Erica's fake aunt in the dining room." Polly struggles to free her boss. "Hang on, I'll have you out of here in a moment."

"No one's going anywhere." Pale with residue, Erica saunters into the room. Her gun, dropped in the now nebulous lobby, has been replaced with a long, menacing blade. "Step away, maid."

"I am _not_ getting paid enough for this job." Polly exhales. The girl darts across the scarlet room, swiftly retrieving the Major's confiscated sword from behind the typewriter. She points the weapon at the robber. "I suggest you check out immediately, ma'am."

The two combatants begin to circle each other around the cramped, cluttered office. The speechless Sybil can only observe the showdown.

"Actually, I think I'll hang around for a while longer. If your drawings are any indication of your hand-eye coordination, your eyesight must be really off," Erica says, smugly. "I'll bet that's not even a real sword. I mean, what sort of management keeps a real sword lying around a hotel?"

Sybil grimaces at this question.

"Miss Praline, if that's your real name, in case you haven't already noticed, this isn't just _any_ hotel." Polly grins, despite herself. "This is Fawlty Towers. You survive here by expecting the unexpected. So you want to ask yourself, do I feel lucky? Well, do you, valued guest?"

"Alright… calm down, Clint Eastwood."

"I'm sorry. I was just getting in the moment."

"Talk tough all you want, dear." Erica lunges forward, slashing at her foe. Polly evades the move. "You're daft for trying my patience. I happen to be a very violent, world class criminal. You're _nothing_."

"I'm a waitress, actually." The two women begin to duel, swinging their swords wildly at each other. _Clink_. "And a maid." _Clink_. "And a receptionist." _Clink_. "And an assistant cook." _Clink_. "And the sole voice of reason." Much to Sybil's relief, the intense fight spills out of the tiny office, down the hallway, and into the lounge. "But most of all, I'm the person that's keeping this place afloat, half of the time." Polly expertly parries Erica's stabbing move. "So, you want to burn down Fawlty Towers? Try getting past me first. Because you must be at sixes and sevens if you think that I'm going to tidy up _that_ sort of mess once all of this is over."

* * *

Basil and Manuel are shoved through the kitchen doors, falling onto the dining room floor. Despite being outnumbered, the physically imposing robber has easily overpowered them.

"You lot are just embarrassing," the Terror gloats over his adversaries. Basil curls up and lies still, in the hopes that he will be mistaken for unconscious. His hand brushes against the weight in his jacket pocket. _The Major's unloaded gun!_

"If anyone should be embarrassed, it's your parents," Basil sneers, pulling out the archaic, unloaded pistol. He staggers to his feet. "For producing such stupid offspring."

"Ha!" Manuel folds his arms, looking extremely self-satisfied. "You lose!"

"I've just been waiting for you to tire yourself out this whole time," Fawlty lies, snobbishly. "A classic maneuver. You must be a moron for not picking up on it."

"You are bad person!" the Spaniard adds, vehemently. He exasperatedly picks his frying pan off the floor.

"Really, I pray you don't have siblings," the hotelier continues, arrogantly. "Alone, you manage to substantially lower the collective IQ of the British population."

"What the hell is going on in here?" Sinclair bursts into the room, his gun drawn.

"You!" Basil gasps, recognizing the former guest. The criminal ignores him.

"I can't see a bloody thing out there. What's happened in the lobby? Where's Erica?" Sinclair notices that his companion's arms are raised in surrender. "Come now. You allowed yourself to be overpowered by _these_ gits?"

"You're that American bastard from before!" Fawlty exclaims.

"Now, now, Mr. Fawlty, that's no way to address a guest!" Sinclair scoffs. "I would know. I used to work in the hospitality industry too. That's one business that really makes you appreciate humanity… for the scum it is." Basil almost finds himself nodding. "Now, drop the weapon or I shoot Sancho, here." Sinclair scowls, aiming at Manuel. "I suggest you cooperate. You're not a hero, Mr. Fawlty."

"No, but I'm not a blinking idiot either!" Basil's own risky bluff is sending him into a reeling panic. This whole situation is absolutely out of control. He wistfully pines for the rude paramedics and the bumpy ambulance. "If you had the misfortunate of having Manuel as a waiter today, you'll be looking to shoot him regardless of my cooperation. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I certainly won't allow my staff to be executed. Not by a bumptious arse, such as yourself." Basil pauses. "Plus, a murder in the dining room would be sure to knock us down a star."

"Oh dear, I'd hate to see the ranking go from 'One Star' to 'Supernova'!" Sinclair taunts. "Or would you just be demoted to 'Black Hole'?"

"Enough! I suggest you get going before this Mexican standoff gives me a migraine. I'll call the taxi myself. You and your associates have worn out your welcome, Mr. Sinclair."

Without warning, the Major emerges through the kitchen doors and proceeds to stroll into the dining room. The impasse participants freeze, startled by the dripping, whistling man.

"Right then." The Major regards the proceedings with a bemused nod. "I'm off to bed."

"Major?" Basil hisses. "What's the story on the help?"

"The help?" The old man frowns. "Well, Manuel's standing right there. I don't see Polly anywhere…"

"What were you doing outside, then?" the furious hotelier sputters. "Just taking an evening stroll?"

"I say, old boy, I seem to have forgotten why I left in the first place," the Major chuckles. "Can't say I'll depart again, though. It's the blooming storm of the century out there!"

Basil positively shakes with frustration as the permanent guest bids everyone a grand evening and exits the dining room. Sinclair and the other Terror share an amazed glance.

"Hang on, Fawlty!" Gowen ducks his head back into the room. "Do you want me to pop upstairs and fetch you some bullets?" The hotel manager's eyes widen in horror. "The gun's useless without them, you know."

"It _has_ got bullets in it, Major," Basil asserts, weakly.

"Of course it doesn't! I've kept it unloaded since the hotel inspector visited." The Major's clueless confession provokes not a few sobs from Basil, exacerbating his already humiliating situation. "Alright, then, if you don't need anything, I'll be heading up for a kip." The old man shuffles off to bed, seemingly oblivious to the opaque and wreckage-filled state of the lobby. "Give us a shout if you find those robbers!"

There is an uncomfortable silence in the dining room, broken only by barely stifled laughter from Sinclair and the Aunt. Manuel comfortingly pats his boss on the back.

"I…" Basil is at a loss for words. "I don't… I can't even…" He gives up attempting to describe his feelings towards the Major at this particular moment.

"Time to get down to business," Sinclair says, finally recovering from his immense amusement. "The premise is simple, really. We want the safe. We think that you wife knows where it is. She won't tell us." He pauses, a thought occurring to him. "Fawlty, _you_ didn't happen to steal the safe from us, did you? I wouldn't have thought you were the type to pull that off—"

"Too honorable?"

"Too catastrophe-prone. But, then again, you never know. You might just impress me."

"You're asking _me_ where safe is?" Basil asks incredulously. "Why would I rob myself?" As an argument brews, Manuel catches sight of something small zipping across the floor. "I don't know where the safe is!"

"There!" The Spaniard points at the scurrying object. "Right there!"

"What the hell his he talking about?" the Aunt asks. "The safe isn't in here."

"I have no idea what he means," Basil snaps. The mysterious shadow lingers by the hotelier's shoe. "Manuel, what is it?"

"Basil!" Manuel exclaims, horrified.

"Yes? No need to shout, I'm standing right here." The hotelier sighs. "What is it, you ninny?" Basil feels something dart beneath his trouser cuff and start to wriggle up his leg. Screaming, he begins to twist and flail about. In his panic, he manages to inadvertently slap Sinclair and the former Aunt several times.

"I've had just about enough of you." The fake American lunges at Fawlty.

"Please, it's not me!" Basil cries, kneeing Sinclair in the gut. The man loses grip on his pistol, which falls to the floor. "It's Basil! He's in my trousers!"

"What the hell?"

"Manuel! Get your lousy pox-infested pet away from me!"

"Please don't hurt Basil!" Manuel finds himself addressing both his frantic employer and the frustrated robbers. "Don't hurt _either_ Basil!"

"I'm putting an end to this nonsense." Winded, Sinclair reaches for his dropped gun.

"I swear to God, this isn't me. I'm being attacked by a bloody Siberian hamster." Pleading, the hotelier waves his hands at the robber. A large rat proceeds to peek out of one of his sleeves. Sinclair shrinks away and screeches at the sight of the rodent. Sensing an advantage, Basil holds out the rat towards the robber. "Don't be alarmed, sir! If you remain calm, I'm fairly sure he won't gnaw your face off." Terrified, Sinclair swiftly retreats. "I think he's just attracted to your toupee!" The robber backs into a chair, falling over.

Basil the Human cackles at this. The rat wriggles out of his namesake's grasp, leaps to the floor, and promptly scampers away. Fawlty follows suit, leaving Manuel to fend off the Aunt with a skillet. The hotel owner races through the inexplicable white cloud that has enveloped the lobby, nearly crashing into the mist-shrouded car.

"Basil!" Sybil exclaims, as her husband surges into the office. "How did you get back here?"

"Simple, dear, I walked through the lobby and around the desk." He begins attempting to free his wife from the chair. "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright? Polly and that awful tart were just sparring in here with swords! Judging from the sounds and the inexplicable fog, I shudder to think about what's happened to the lobby. And, worst of all, you turned out to be right about those bloody robbers."

"Yes." Basil beams. "You know, Sybil, I did—"

"_Basil_!" He smugly ignores the warning.

"—tell you so!" Fawlty can't help but laugh. "Ha! I was right all along!"

"Oh yes! You must be so happy!" she growls. "Congratulations on being right for _once_ in your life, Basil Fawlty! Your reward is a fabulous night of horror, during which you'll be robbed, arrested, and subsequently murdered by dangerous criminals!"

"If you had believed to me sooner, this wouldn't have happened."

"I would've believed you sooner, had you not lost your mind today."

"I would've been out of here sooner, had you two been less dysfunctional," Sinclair muses, appearing in the office doorway, "Now, you've forced me to take drastic measures."

"Please, don't hurt us," Sybil whispers. "I'm… I'm pre—"

"Pretty sick and tired of dealing with you bloody ingrates!" Basil interrupts, charging at Sinclair. He tackles his enemy, causing them both to crack into and flip over the front desk. The two men grapple for the gun in the gloom of the lobby. "We rush about, waiting on you people hand and foot, and this is how you repay us?"

"Isn't it funny how horrible people are always the most indignant when they're treated horribly in return?" Donald Sinclair sneers, as they struggle. The gun slides somewhere out of sight and the opponents break away from each other, both intent on locating the weapon in the fog. "I bet you fancy yourself a hero for coming back. In reality, you've just made my job a bit easier. The Terrors of Toquay are the big story today, but you just wait until tomorrow! I can just picture the _Echo_ headlines: 'Crazed, widely-hated Torquay hotelier Basil Fawlty murders wife and staff and sets grotty hotel on fire!'"

"Bit wordy for a headline," Basil says, snottily. He blindly fumbles about the vehicle, eyes scanning the carpet for the firearm. "Maybe a byline."

"Right then. How about 'Fawlty _Fires_ Hotel Staff.'" Sinclair giggles, somewhere in the darkness. "Nobody will think twice about you snapping and killing everyone in the place. All those witnesses saw you act like a nutter while you were searching for robbers. You really should've listened to that old saying, 'Burn not your house to frighten the mouse away.' Or the rat, in your case."

"Listen, I'll admit that we have a rodent problem. But there's no reason to resort to extremes, here." Basil's voice quavers slightly. "I don't give a damn about the hotel. Raze it. Take the money. Just don't hurt them."

"I'm sorry, what was that last part?" Donald sneers. "Them? Who do you mean by that?"

"Don't hurt them. Sybil. Polly. Manuel. The elderly idiots upstairs. Let them all go."

"I'm surprised at you, Basil! Why shouldn't they be included in the fun? They're the problems, aren't they? They drive you crazy! Your staff, your wife, they're ruining your life! Forget the guests! Things would go so much smoother if the people who're supposed to be helping you didn't mess up constantly!"

"Please…"

"Getting rid of this horror hotel would be doing the Torquay Tourism Board a favor. Getting rid of its personnel would be doing you a favor, Fawlty!"

"That's enough!"

"Ooh. I seem to have struck a nerve. 'That's enough.' Witty. Basil sans clever comeback, how odd."

"You and your thugs won't be checking out of here intact if you do anything to hurt my family." Basil closes his eyes, praying that nobody other than his opponent heard that embarrassing declaration. "I'll guarantee you that."

"Oh God, this is getting corny! Family? Well, well, well. Mr. Basil Fawlty, the miserly misanthrope. Looks like you _do_ have a heart." Donald Sinclair grins, his hand brushing against a gun barrel. He smiles, snatching up the weapon. "Which I'm about to shoot through with this gun that I've just found." He stands up, pointing the weapon. Basil is nowhere in sight. _Time to flush the bastard out_. "No, sorry, that's simply too good for you. You really are a horrible hotelier. I'll shoot you last. You can watch your loved ones die first."

"No."

"You're right. Loved ones is a funny way of putting it, considering the way _you_ act with them! If that's the way you treat the people you _like_, how the bloody hell do you treat the people you _don't_?"

"You're about to find out," Basil growls, springing at his adversary. Sinclair fires, missing. Similarly, Fawlty fails to come in contact his intended target, instead slamming headfirst into the lobby wall. The moose head, already disturbed by the car crash, slips from its position. It thuds down on the unfortunate hotelier, enveloping his head and shoulders. Sinclair cackles watching his enemy stumble frenziedly about the lobby, his head replaced by that of a moose.

* * *

The swordfight between Erica and Polly continues to explode through the hazy and dark first floor of the hotel. Much to the latter's surprise, she finds herself battling it out in one corner of the dining room. Across the space, Manuel and the Aunt are engaging in a similar clash. Their weapons are a skillet and a flick-knife, respectively. To Polly, the entire row is beginning to feel like a metaphor for the tumultuous daily life at the hotel. Remove the weapons and the burglary and you've got any Tuesday evening at Fawlty Towers.

"Ready for a tea break, yet?" Erica sneers, knocking the Major's sword from the exhausted waitress's hand. Jeering, she leans up against a nearby table and points her blade at Polly. "I'm going to enjoy this, love. Nothing irks me like shoddy service."

"Manuel" Polly calls. "Table Six!"

Seeing his coworker's distress, the Spaniard ducks past his foe and flips over the table that Erica is sitting on. Her weapon is dropped and subsequently snatched up by Polly. Erica flops to the ground. The dining table lands heavily upon her.

"Oh dear, is that what you meant by shoddy service? Awfully sorry! Guess I won't be getting a good tip," Polly says, in a sheepish tone. "I'm always so clumsy. No hand-eye coordination, you know?" The art student glances up to see Manuel shoved into a corner by the Aunt. His frying pan clatters to the floor.

"All right, all right!" The Terror is brandishing a sizable flick knife. "As much as I enjoy bashing continental gits, I've had quite enough of you."

"Que?" Manuel asks. Sword in hand, Polly sneaks up behind the robber.

"Learn English, you blooming dimwit!" Sensing a sneak attack, the Aunt whirls around and catches the waitress by the wrist. "Nice try, sweetheart. You must be mad, sticking around to save this guy. Should've gotten out while you had the chance."

"I just wanted to offer you a complimentary meal to apologize for how things have gone this evening." Polly discreetly kicks the frying pan towards Manuel. "Paella, on the house! Believe me, Manuel's rather handy with a skillet."

The smile fades from the criminal's face as the frying pan is brought down upon his head. He crumples to the floor.

"Everything would've been brilliant, if it weren't for you meddling waitress!" the fake Aunt groans, before losing consciousness. "And you, you stupid Lusitanian!"

"Excuse me?" Manuel twirls about the skillet, smiling proudly. Polly embraces him. "I am from _Barcelona_."

* * *

"Bravo, Bas!" Sinclair mockingly applauds the moose-headed individual. "Excellent work, as usual! That sort of rustic ambiance you've got going on is just wonderful." He shakes his head, elated. "You know, this job has been amazingly funny. I'm actually glad we came to this low-class dump."

"Low-class dump?" the antlered beast bellows. Like an incensed Minotaur, the hotelier ducks his head and stampedes, horns first. The guffawing robber cannot react in time. Basil the Moose crashes into him, sending him slamming into the desk. Winded by the impact, Sinclair slumps to a sitting position.

"It's wonderful to hear such a glowing review." Fawlty wriggles out of the decorative trophy and stomps over towards his fallen rival. "Do recommend us to all your friends." He picks the desk bell up and pretends to casually examine it. "I trust you've enjoyed your stay at Fawlty Towers." He smashes the bell atop Sinclair's head, knocking the robber out cold. "Thank you and come again." He pauses for a moment, allowing the realization to sink in. "My Lord… did that actually just go according to plan?"

In a state of joyous disbelief, Basil rushes into the office to free his wife. Sybil looks up in surprise, her large eyes brimming with tears.

"Syb!" He plants a kiss on her forehead. "I'm happy to announce that Flambé Fawlty Towers is finally off the menu."

"Basil!" she exclaims, rather shocked. Fawlty begins untying her from the chair. "How the bloody hell did you beat him?"

"Your confidence in me is touching, dearest."

"I thought he'd killed you!"

"Oh, he did." He shrugs, nonchalantly. "I got better."

"Are you really okay?"

"Not okay, Syb." Basil helps his wife to her feet."_Wonderful_! I did it! I beat that arrogant sod!" Basil and Sybil embrace for the first time in a very long time. "Can't have behavior like that in our refined establishment. Now, let's go see how the fight in the dining room is going." The Fawltys rush out into the lobby. "_Manuel_? _Polly_?"

"We're fine!" The employees emerge from the dining room arm in arm, looking battle-worn but triumphant. "The other two Terrors are locked in the kitchen closet."

"Good, good!" Basil claps his hands together. "Safe in the Major's room. Rat in my trousers. Robbers in the cupboard. Car in the lobby. Job well done, everybody!" Much to his own astonishment, the hotelier proceeds to instigate a quick, awkward group hug. "I'm glad that everyone survived. Nights like tonight can really test a hotel, but we got through it. Excellent. Right. Okay, Manuel, that's…that's enough. _Let go_!"

"Os quiero a todos mucho, mucho!" The Spaniard is so overcome with emotion that Fawlty is practically forced to pry him off. "Tú eres mi segunda familia."

"A hug from Mr. Fawlty?" Polly grins, shaking her head. "That's probably the oddest thing I've experienced all evening."

"Polly, why don't you and Manuel head over to one of the neighbors?" Sybil suggests. "We'd better phone the police and clear all of this up."

"Certainly, Mrs. Fawlty!" Leading the Barcelonan by the hand, Polly circumambulates the car and exits the hotel. The Fawltys move to the drenched entranceway to watch their employees sprint away through the stormy night.

"Hopefully they'll be better at finding help than the Major was," Fawlty remarks, turning to his wife. He feels a tug on his tie. "What's the matter?" Wordlessly, Sybil pulls him into a kiss. It's sweet, despite the sizable height difference.

"That was for coming back," she explains, once they break apart. "You were right about the robbers. However, the Terrors of Torquay did not flood the basement, knock out the power, or scare away guests." Her voice has taken on its familiar icy quality. "The next time I tell you to get something done, what are you going to do?"

"Listen." Basil's shudder is not due to the cold.

"Right." Sybil smiles, her tone softening. "I have some big news for you. I never imagined it coming out this way, but after everything that's happened tonight, I'd better just tell you now."

"Go ahead!" Relieved to have avoided a longer, scarier tirade, Fawlty relaxes. At ease, he leans against the sole standing entranceway wall. "Before something else goes wrong!"

"I'm—" is all Sybil manages before the weakened wall collapses atop her husband.

* * *

"Today, I'd like to pay my respects to a complicated man," the Major gravely announces. "Basil Fawlty wasn't an easy fellow to understand, but he was a solid chap nonetheless." Manuel nods, solemnly. Polly regards the toast with wide eyes. "He knew a thing or two about mustaches and hard work and the untrustworthiness of Germans. He knew a thing or two about life." The Major claps his hands together, expectantly. "So, where've you got the casket?"

"Basil hasn't passed on, Major," Polly explains, patiently waiting for the old man to take a seat at his table. Having failed to understand the speech, Manuel resumes serving Miss Tibbs and Miss Gatsby. "He should be back from the hospital any moment now! Now sit down and I'll get you some tea."

"Ah. Very well, then." The Major complies as Polly refills his cup. "Good thing, too. I'm hardly dressed for a wake."

A car's engine sounds in the parking lot.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fawlty!" The Barcelonan starts to sprint out of the dining room, only to be stopped by Polly.

"Not yet, Manuel. That was just Mr. Stubbs's men leaving."

Having heard about the disaster at Fawlty Towers, Stubbs and his team arrived early in the morning to assess and restructure the damaged entranceway. Stubbs was impressed with Fawlty's handling of the robbers; he had offered his talents for a discount.

Indeed, word of Mr. Fawlty's purported heroics has spread quickly across Devon. Spontaneous donations towards the damages were already being phoned in. The Torquay Fire Brigade had arrived to pump the water from the basement and remove the red car from the lobby (it was currently being towed to a shop for extensive repair). Journalists have been traipsing around the hotel all day, snapping photographs and interviewing neighbors and witnesses. In the kitchen, one such member of the press is quoting an awed Terry.

"I got home and ate dinner with the wife. She's Finnish, you know, very fit. Anyways, we turn on the telly later, and what do we see on the news? My very own place of work, Fawlty Towers! There's talk of fugitives, arson, robbers. I drove straight back here to make sure no one was hurt. No one was, thanks to Mr. Fawlty coming back to help. I still can't believe he was right about those Terrors of Torquay."

Polly heads into the restored lobby to sweep the incredibly dusty floor. Fawlty Towers will be having a grand reopening tomorrow and there mustn't be any trace left of the insanity that took place last night. Mind-bogglingly, the previously deserted hotel has already been completely booked up. Now that the saga about the robbers is out, everyone wants to stay at Fawlty Towers, owned by the fantastically rude and audacious Basil Fawlty.

The door swings open.

"It wasn't all bad. In the end, I got to hit some particularly unpleasant guests." Holding hands with his wife, Basil has just completed a brief interview with a feverishly scribbling _Echo_ reporter on the steps of the hotel. Fawlty's head is bandaged and one arm is in a sling. "That's been somewhat of a dream of mine for years now." Sybil gives him a _look_. "No further comments." He closes the newly replaced front door on the man's face. "O'Reilly's made fast work of this, then."

"Not O'Reilly, dear. Stubbs," Sybil informs him. "If this were O'Reilly's work, he'd have sealed up this entranceway and opened a brand new one on the roof. Speaking of stupid animals, has the moose head been rehung, Polly?"

"The moose is back in position, Mrs. Fawlty." The art student smiles at her work. "And it looks like Bullwinkle's having a wonderful hair day!" Sinclair's toupee, cast-off during the tussle with Basil, has been draped over the beast's cranium. Fawlty beams at the addition.

"Thank you." Sybil darts up the stairs. "I'd better call Mother and let her know we're fine, before she starts planning our funerals."

"Good idea," Basil says, nodding. "She's certainly been trying to have mine arranged for years now."

"Mr. Fawlty!" Manuel bursts into the room and joyfully hugs his employer. "You are okay! Basil and I… we worry about you!""

"You and that bloody rat." Basil rolls his eyes. "What are we going to do about that?"

"That rat did save your life, Mr. Fawlty," Polly reminds him. Basil sighs, glancing down at the ecstatic waiter.

"I suppose... oh, fine. He can stay."

"Gracias! Mr. Fawlty! You are saint! Muchos gracias!"

"As long as we have no more biscuit episodes," Basil adds, sternly. He marches into the kitchen, chased by the practically tearful, gratitude-dispensing Manuel. Smiling, Polly continues to sweep. Suddenly, she turns around to see Doug and Judy Norman entering the hotel, followed with a sizable crowd of people. She recognizes many faces as guests from last night.

"Hello!" she says, pleasantly. "Here to pick up your valuables?"

"Yes," Judy nods. Agreement ripples through the group. "I must say, had I not seen their mug shots on television, I would've never believed that robbers were behind everything last night."

"That's understandable." Polly dashes into the office, unlocks the safe, and returns with the items. She begins to distribute the various objects to their rightful owners. "Last night was absolutely insane. Sorry for any inconvenience we may have caused you."

"Don't you apologize," the vicar says. "You're the only sane person in this hotel." Polly grins.

"Are the Fawltys around?" Doug asks.

"They're resting at the moment," Polly tells them. "A wall fell on Mr. Fawlty last night." The ex-guests gasp. She shakes her blonde head. "Long story."

"Well, let them know that Michael and Helen have decided to not press charges against Mr. Fawlty. They changed their minds when they heard that there were actual robbers here," Judy says. "They understand that he was just protecting his home."

"That's very kind of them!" Polly exclaims. "Tell them that they'll get two nights free, if they ever care to stay here again."

"Well, that's never going to happen!" Doug chuckles. The entire room descends into laughter. "Seriously, though. They're traumatized."

The dining room door opens slowly. Basil begins to triumphantly stroll back into the restored lobby. Noticing the former guests, he freezes in horror. It's too late to make a hasty exit; they've spotted him.

"Hello, Fawlty." Doug turns around to shake his hand. "I'm glad to see that you eventually caught the real robbers."

"Last night was _interesting_," Judy says, "Thank you for a memorable stay."

"We've decided to not press charges either." A simpering Bedevere emerges from the crowd. "You were panicking, we understand."

"Safety tip: never sedate the driver of a moving vehicle again," Paramedic Gill says, dryly.

"We actually came because we thought we'd have to arrest you again," Officer Graham says, brightly, "But it sounds like no one's pressing charges, so we'll be off."

"Have a great day!" Officer Ericson waves.

And so on. Basil awkwardly endures a grueling gauntlet of handshakes and fond farewells. He does not know how to react to the praise. It's almost as incomprehensible as English is to Manuel. Still, it leaves him feeling _content_. A sensation that is unfamiliar to the perpetually stressed Fawlty.

"Thank you all…." Basil says numbly, watching the last of the group disperse. "_For not suing_."

"Who was that?" Sybil inquires, coming down the stairs.

"Just some admirers of Mr. Fawlty," Polly teases.

"And now they're all gone! Splendid!" Basil races over to the front desk, ringing the bell. "Hello, there? I've a reservation for two! The name's Fawlty."

"How may I help you, Mr. Fawlty?"

"You could tell Terry to stop spilling secrets to the tabloids and make us lunch already."

"Actually, sir, Andre sent over a lovely afternoon tea. It's in the dining room right now. Why don't you go and have that?"

"Complimentary tea?" Basil frowns. "Why did he go and do that?"

"It was his way of saying congratulations," Sybil says, slyly.

"Was he impressed by my daring defeat of the robbers?"

"No, Basil," she muses. "He was impressed by our pregnancy." Polly gasps.

"Ah, yes, of course. Pregnancy. Right, then." Fortunately, Manuel arrives in time to catch the swooning hotelier. Just as Polly is about to go fetch smelling salts, Basil manages to struggle to his feet. "_Pregnancy_?"

"That's wonderful!" Polly cheers. "You must be so excited!"

"Yes," Sybil smiles. "I just hope that Fawlty Towers can handle the extra chaos in the coming months."

"I…I…" Basil abruptly leans down to kiss his wife.

"Manuel, why don't we go walk Basil?" Polly suggests, brightly. The waiter races upstairs to fetch his pet. When Manuel returns with the rat on his shoulder, the Fawltys are still kissing. Sharing a knowing smile, the Barcelonan and the waitress exit the hotel. "How lovely! It looks like the sun's coming out!"

The End


End file.
